“Too many ifs and maybes,” Morgan cut in, allowing his long simmering resentment at being ordered around to creep into his tone. “He won’t wait.”
“But he must! By that time, whether the cops pass her death off as a good, old-fashioned random act of violence, New York style, will hardly matter. Because whatever they finally decide, it will take them a few weeks more to figure it out, and then it will be too late for them to stop us.”
“That’s playing it unbelievably tight.”
“Kill her now, and you’ll end up giving the cops a full seven weeks to find you. Do you prefer that?”
Morgan’s stomach clamped into a knot. “Of course not!” he started to say, but the taste of bile tickled the back of his throat, and he had to swallow several times more before he could force it back down.
“Then we agree,” the man continued, taking advantage of Morgan’s difficulty speaking. “Except for God’s sake convince him to let us handle her this time. The way his exotic imported help does things, they’re liable to screw it up again.”
“What if she figures it all out and goes public earlier than you expect,” Morgan challenged as soon as he got his voice back, “before we can silence her?”
The man glared at him. “Don’t worry. My position gives me sufficient access to her that I can keep tabs on her progress.”
“We both know you can’t guarantee that,” Morgan countered, his defiance growing.
“The topic’s closed, Bob! Understand?” His bellow sent a dozen seagulls that had gathered around them flapping skyward and screeching in protest. “Or would you like me to start dealing with our ‘client’ directly and inform him that you no longer have the enthusiasm you initially showed for our project?”
Morgan immediately fell silent, feeling more ensnared than ever. His skin grew even stickier against his shirt, and he caught a whiff of his own sweat—sour and stale as it wafted out of the collar of his coat.
“Good. Then let’s consider that matter settled,” declared the man, his voice all at once as nonchalant as if he’d just passed some minor motion at a routine business meeting. “How’s our crop doing in the south?” he asked brightly.
Morgan couldn’t change gears so easily. Still seething over their exchange, he sullenly answered, “According to my sources, it’ll start being harvested, marketed, and replanted on schedule next week.”
“And you’ve made our client understand that as a weapon, it will be a sleeper, not like what we’re using for the initial strike. I don’t want him tracking us down afterwards with complaints that he’s getting impatient for results.”
“He’s been duly advised.”
“Good!”
Another item on the agenda imperiously dispensed with, thought Morgan as silence once more congealed in the space between them.
“Now, there is someone you should take care of immediately,” the man suddenly announced a few seconds later, “before he becomes a big problem.”
The statement caught Morgan completely off guard. “Who?”
“That doctor, Richard Steele—the one who spoke so eloquently at the conference and was on TV, then made such an ass of himself.”
“Him? I’ve already had him checked out. He’s harmless. My security people tell me he mostly spends his afternoons in the park with the other old men.”
“Don’t underestimate him. As a physician, his medical knowledge could neutralize this whole part of our operation”—he gestured up at the FDR—“if he found it out in time. And a doctor doesn’t rise to the top in ER without having brains or his share of nerve. Should Sullivan ever get him revved up enough that he teamed up with her, and the two of them were on our tail, we’d be in trouble. Now here’s what I have in mind . . .”
The chatter of an approaching helicopter drowned the man out. No longer able to hear him, Morgan looked up and spotted the craft against a slate of black clouds that promised yet more showers. In seconds the stuttering roar amplified enough to hurt his ears as the machine drew closer, hovered above them, and then slowly descended to an asphalt tarmac off to their left that looked no bigger than a couple of tennis courts. Standing beside the surrounding chain-link fence, they were close enough to the accompanying blast of dusty air that they had to turn away, hunching their backs as it erupted around them. Morgan fished around in the pocket of his raincoat, its hem whipping about his legs, and brought out a disposable panoramic camera that he’d purchased from a souvenir shop on the way over. Looking very much like a tourist, he snapped a string of photos of the craft after it had settled onto the ground, making sure to include the familiar sight of the UN building in the background—as a landmark for his pilots.
“You’re sure our three copters will fit on that wee bit of space?” his companion shouted through cupped hands into his right ear, making it throb even more.
As if in answer, a second machine appeared overhead, adding to the din while it, too, slowly lowered itself until it rocked to a stop beside the first. While the whine of the rotors died down, Morgan pointed to the yellow markings within the landing area indicating where there remained room for a third, then continued to snap pictures. He seemed to be capturing the passengers as they disembarked and entered the small trailer home that served as a heliport depot for the greatest city on earth. In reality he focused on the nearby pumps and fuel storage tanks. In another shot he raised the lens enough that he also got a good picture of the hospital. In yet another he swung around a little farther south, capturing a wide angle view of the waterfront in that direction as well.
“And it’s certain we’ll have access to this facility at the precise time we need?” questioned his companion.
“Absolutely,” Morgan replied, finishing off the roll of film and pocketing the camera. “None of the companies using this port can park here overnight, and local air traffic will be shut down a half hour prior to the start of the show. We’ve scheduled our arrival to refuel just in time to beat that deadline. Then we’ll feign mechanical difficulty, to postpone taking off until it’s time to start the attack.”
The man turned to survey the expressway overhead. “And how much of it will be shut down this year?”
“Twenty-eight blocks—from Fourteenth to Forty-second.” Looking up, he gestured with both arms wide open as if he were telling a fish story. “And because it’s the millennium, they’re also closing off a smaller section below the Brooklyn Bridge.”
His companion continued to scan the edge of the elevated roadway, and Morgan, in spite of himself, began to picture what it would be like crammed with people. In his imagination he added a crowd along the river’s edge and an even bigger throng of latecomers jamming the streets leading to the river. As for the number of onlookers that could pack themselves onto every available rooftop, he’d no idea, but the city had already issued an estimate that total attendance in this particular area would hit a new record, topping at least three hundred thousand.
“How will you deploy the craft?”
“One for the FDR. One for the walkways at the river’s edge where we are now, and one for the side streets, including the rooftops, all the way back to Lexington. That third pilot will be paying particular attention to people on the hospital buildings.” He paused, visualizing each of the dozen or so structures capped off with a teeming crown of revelers. Then he added, “With any luck we’ll infect half their medical staff in a single pass, which will ultimately add to the confusion once victims start showing symptoms and come into ER. Of course, by then it’ll be their own DNA that’s making them ill, and they’ll be beyond medical help.” He hoped that his forced enthusiasm sounded convincing. In truth, the more he talked, the more filled with loathing he became.
“What height will you be spraying from?”
“At least a hundred feet, and it will feel gentle as a mist. Unlike what we shot into the corn plants, this vector, since it’s designed to be inhaled or to simply settle on exposed skin, eyes, or lips, can be delivered from much higher u
p with a far wider dispersal. At least, that’s what our lab simulations told us. And we figure the microscopic lipid particles we use to keep the invasive DNA intact will give the liquid a slightly greasy texture. At the end of a hot day, it might actually feel soothing to sunburned skin, inviting the targets to massage it into flesh that’s already inflamed. In fact, to minimize panic and everyone’s running away, we’re going to phone in rumors to the media that a skin-care company is pulling a publicity stunt, releasing one of their after-sun products onto the crowd. Hopefully that’ll maximize the numbers who we’ll douse.”
“And the infection rate?”
“According to our own animal trials, about forty percent of those exposed will succumb. That’s a hundred and twenty thousand people.”
“Oh, my God,” the man whispered, as softly as if uttering an actual prayer. He stared up at the expressway, wearing a look of dismay, the way a person might appreciate a troubling work of art.
Watching him, Morgan wondered if up to that moment the man had seen their plan only as an academic exercise, much as he himself had until one night over a cornfield in Oklahoma. Had his companion’s coming to the site and hearing the practical details finally driven home to him the full impact of what they were about to do? Now, maybe you’ll start to sweat it the way I have, he hoped. If so, from here on in, you and I will at least be on the same footing as far as nerve is concerned, and that ought to put an end to your unilateral threats to report waning enthusiasm. But in his own mind’s eye he continued to see the crowds as if they had already gathered in the freeway and along the river. They were all craning their necks and staring in his direction—compelled to see the monster who would fatally alter their genetic core.
“Now about this business of Richard Steele,” continued the man at his side, breaking a silence that had seemed to go on forever.
Tuesday, May 23, 6:55 A.M.
It had been a summons, not an invitation.
“I’d like to see you for a breakfast meeting, Dr. Sullivan,” Greg Stanton had told her over the phone last week. “How’s Tuesday morning at seven?”
She shivered as she made her way through the darkened deserted hallways leading to his office, but not from cold. The Bunker, generations of medical students had labeled this place. It sat atop a twenty-story obelisk otherwise filled with labs and classrooms where these would-be doctors got their basic training in medical sciences before being set loose on patients in the hospital. From it emanated the decisions that regulated their daily existence, shaped their subsequent residency choices, and in some cases whether or not they even had a career in medicine.
But the latest batch of these healers-in-training wouldn’t flock around their professors on the floors below and settle in for yet another day of their four-year journey until an hour later, at eight. And the administrators who kept the process running would stream into the carpeted offices she now hurried past no sooner than a half hour after that. A 7:00 A.M. appointment with the dean, she knew, usually meant that he wanted no one else around to hear the yelling or crying he expected from whatever nasty or particularly sensitive matter he intended to discuss.
“Good morning, Dr. Sullivan,” greeted Greg Stanton after she’d knocked on his open door. He stepped out from behind his massive rosewood desk and crossed an expanse of taupe-colored broadloom to shake her hand. The smell of fresh coffee filled the air, and she spotted a sterling pot alongside a plate of croissants on a table nestled amongst a quartet of beige sofa chairs. The really brutal encounters, she’d learned from other victims of these early sessions, didn’t include breakfast. So it must be simply a sensitive topic, she guessed, somewhat relieved.
“Morning, Greg, and please, it’s Kathleen,” she replied, determined to keep their encounter on a first-name basis. A veteran of unequal power relationships in the world of academic medicine, she always found that a touch of informality never hurt, and that sometimes it could tip the unlevel playing field a little to her advantage. As nice as Stanton had appeared to be in his previous dealings with her, the authority of his office over her work and professional standing remained absolute, and that left her instinctively wary of him.
“Of course. Kathleen it is, then,” he replied, offering her a place to sit. “Coffee?”
She accepted the cup he poured for her, measuring his expression for any hint of unpleasantness to come, but his hard blue eyes and polite smile remained inscrutable. As usual he’d dressed to impress, sporting an impeccably tailored tan suit and aqua shirt, which suited his complexion. Around the faculty club a few wags would refer to him from time to time as “the model.” When he caught her studying him, she quickly rallied, “You look wonderful, Greg. Obviously you don’t let the pressures of this job interfere with your swimming,” and settled back, signaling her readiness to hear what he had to say.
He took the chair opposite her, not bothering to take a coffee for himself. “I’ll come right to the point,” he began. “Since your meeting in Hawaii I’ve taken a lot of flak—mainly on account of your sensationalist speculation about genetically modified food being linked to that case of bird flu they had over there a year and a half ago.”
She instantly tensed. “Now wait a minute. That meeting has nothing to do with you. I was named chairperson by the UN independent of my faculty appointment here—”
“I know, I know!” he cut in. “But the biotechnical industry doesn’t make such fine distinctions. In short, a group of CEOs represented by that asshole Sydney Aimes have insisted on a retraction, or they threaten to withdraw their endowments to our school, which, I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, are considerable.”
“That’s blackmail!” she sputtered, already bolt upright at the edge of her chair.
“Yes, and I’m mad as hell about it, too. But the University Board of Directors has tied my hands. Either you comply, or I’m to demand your resignation.”
At first she couldn’t speak, his blunt ultimatum so took her breath away. “You’d sell out academic freedom like that, Greg?” she finally squeaked. “I don’t believe it!”
“Of course I wouldn’t. And I’d support you to the hilt if you had a shred of proof to back your claims. But you haven’t produced anything concrete, Kathleen. And you didn’t help your credibility any, sneaking out to that farm in the middle of the night. The bloody press made you look like an amateur sleuth rather than a reputable scientist. Thank God at least you weren’t hurt.”
His rebukes made her cheeks burn. “Why? Would my getting killed have lost you even more endowment money?” She sprang to her feet, determined to walk out on him.
“That’s a cheap shot, Dr. Sullivan!” he said, rising and stepping to bar her way. “You know I’ve always promoted you and your work, and I intend to continue doing so now. Frankly, I’m shocked you don’t know me better than to think I’d bow to that kind of pressure.” He ended his stern reproach with a carbon copy of the smile he’d first greeted her with and gestured for her to retake her seat. “Now sit down, and let’s figure a way out of this mess. It so happens I share some of your fears about the vectors they’re using to swap genes these days.”
She paid attention only to his eyes. Their cool gaze told her nothing.
“Please, Kathleen,” he added gently, as if the harshness of his outburst had never occurred, “give me a chance to help. Your cause is too important to lose you over something like this.”
She hesitated, cooling her temper and calculating whether she should trust him. Again she considered her past experience with the man. Just as he claimed, he’d always been a supporter of her research and her presence in the medical school. But through her discoveries and publications, along with her high profile, she’d generated her own fair share of endowment money over the years as well. How much would he stand up for her now that she threatened to become a financial liability? She knew he’d certainly done his share of taking an ax to the place, but that was the norm in all medical schools during this age of cutbacks. Nev
ertheless, she’d listened to the expected grumblings about his ruthlessness from some of those whose programs he’d chopped. And if he’d ever stood up to the pressures of the buck and the board to take a moral stand, she’d certainly not heard about it. The fact that he dressed like a successful stockbroker didn’t boost her confidence any that he would do so. “What do you have in mind?” she asked, remaining on her feet.
He gave his instant smile again, making her suspect he’d practiced it before a mirror. “Is there anything you can show me that will back your claims about genetic vectors being infectious to humans?” he demanded, his eyes flashing with eagerness. “Even if it’s only a preliminary result, I could take what you have to the board and use it to argue your case. For instance, I inferred from the newspaper articles that you actually gathered some specimens on your escapade to that farm, before all hell broke out. Are you analyzing them?”
Her researcher’s instinct not to divulge data prior to publication—honed from years of guarding against plagiarism amongst colleagues—prevented her from answering immediately. “Why, yes,” she finally admitted, figuring Stanton didn’t pose that kind of risk. In fact, not cooperating with him could prove more dangerous to her career than any copycat ever had. “They’re being analyzed at Honolulu University. We ought to know in another three or four weeks whether we’ve got any rogue strands of DNA indicating the presence of a man-made vector, but I think a find there is a long shot.”
He grimaced. “Would you be willing to give me a report immediately if you do get anything that even suggests you’re on the right track? I’d keep it confidential, of course, but with something in hand, I’ll be in a position to not only insist that this is an issue of academic freedom after all, but that . . . let’s see . . . how shall I put this so it will sound good for the board?” He paused, making a show of searching the ceiling as if the right words might be hidden there. “ . . . Your unorthodox way of getting the samples in the first place is a credit to your scientific doggedness, not a symptom of your being . . .” Trailing off again, he stared straight at her, flashed her a grin both wicked and wide, and then added, “Shall we say, flaky?” He let loose a low chuckle that seemed to fill the room.
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