by A. G. Riddle
A banner at the top of the web page urged him to download the Labyrinth Reality app. He clicked the link and waited while the app downloaded. When he launched it, a dialog asked if he wanted to join a private labyrinth or the public space. He clicked private, and it prompted him for a passcode. He thought for a moment, then typed in the second phone number he had called—the one that referenced Labyrinth Reality.
A message flashed on the screen:
Welcome to the Hall of Shadows Private Labyrinth.
Two icons appeared. To the left was a beast with the head of a bull and the body of a man; to the right was a warrior wearing armor and holding a shield and a sword. The text under it asked:
Declare yourself: Minotaur or Hero
Desmond pondered the question. In some form it had haunted him since he had woken up: what was he? Was he a monster who had killed in that hotel room? He had assaulted the police officers and hotel security guard without hesitation. And he had been good at it; it probably wasn’t the first time he had fought for his life and freedom. His scar-ridden body supported that idea. And in the recesses of his mind, somewhere, he knew that he had done bad things, though he couldn’t remember them.
Yet deep down he still felt that he was a good person. Or maybe that was just what he wanted to be.
The thought brought clarity: he would enter the labyrinth as he wanted himself to be, not as he was or had been.
He clicked the hero icon. The screen faded, and a box popped up:
Searching for entrance…
A minute later, the text turned to red and flashed a new message:
No entrance found.
Continue searching, Theseus. Never give up.
Desmond wondered what it all meant. He did a series of web searches, trying to connect the dots. The labyrinth had first appeared in Greek mythology. Daedalus and his son Icarus had built the labyrinth to hold the half-man, half-beast Minotaur that dwelled at its center. Daedalus was a brilliant craftsman and artist, and his design was so ingenious that he himself had almost gotten trapped within his own labyrinth.
At that moment, Desmond realized what he had suspected ever since he’d heard his own voice on the voicemail recording: like Daedalus, he was trapped in a labyrinth that he himself had constructed. But why? Did he have a proverbial Minotaur—a beast or secret he wished to hide from the world, or to protect the world from? Was he the monster he feared?
And he realized something else. If he had built this labyrinth, he must have known that at some point he would enter it, that he would lose his memories—either by his own choosing or by someone else’s actions. Was the labyrinth an elaborate backup plan? Would it lead him to whatever it was he needed? Would it somehow allow him to get his memories back?
He eased himself up and folded the Murphy bed into the wall. That gave him room to pace in the tiny flat, which was no larger than twelve by twenty feet. The wall opposite the bed held a simple kitchen: a counter with a sink, small refrigerator, stove, microwave, and a TV. The bathroom was a wet room without a single square inch to spare.
Desmond walked to the window and looked down. It was six p.m., and the streets were packed. A layer of cigarette smoke mixed with car, bus, and motorcycle exhaust. The toxic brew drifted up, casting the scene in haze. The sun was low in the late November sky, and it would set soon.
He turned around. The flat’s owner had attached a large mirror to the underside of the bed frame, and with the Murphy bed folded into the wall, the mirror made the space seem larger. Desmond stared at himself: at his toned, muscular face, at his blond, eyebrow-length hair, at the image of a man who was a complete mystery to him. His appearance wasn’t overly remarkable in Berlin—as a fugitive, he would have been far more noticeable in Shanghai or Egypt—but still, he would have to alter his appearance. When night fell, that would be his first task.
At the moment, however, he had to unravel what was happening. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he needed to be doing.
He focused on what he knew: he had set up the phone numbers and left the voicemail greeting, knowing, or perhaps merely hoping, he would find them. The second voicemail greeting had led him to his own private labyrinth. What did the first phone number lead to? His words in the message had taunted him, saying he’d know what to do. What did he know?
He figured he must have purchased the prepaid credit cards first, then set up the phone numbers to match the credit card numbers. He did a series of internet searches and discovered that the first three digits of the phone numbers corresponded to Google Voice lines. The service was free and included an online control panel where users could access voicemail, forward the number to other phone lines, and more.
That was it: he could access the voicemail from the Google Voice app. He downloaded it to his cell and tried a few password combinations with no luck.
What am I missing?
He searched the suit again, but there were no other hidden pockets. He sat on a small wooden chair by the window to think. The plastic dry cleaning bag lay wadded up in the corner of the room. Through the clear layers, Desmond spotted a pink piece of paper stapled to the top.
He jumped up, ripped the plastic apart, and examined the small slip. It was a carbon copy of the dry-cleaning receipt. The name on the tag was Jacob Lawrence.
Desmond grabbed his phone and entered the name as the password on the Google Voice app. To his relief, it worked.
The application opened and displayed the voicemail mailbox, which contained three messages, all from the same phone number. The first was dated two days before. He clicked it and read the transcript:
I think someone’s following me. Not sure. Don’t call back. Meet me where we met the first time. Tomorrow. 10 a.m.
Desmond clicked the second message, which had been left yesterday at noon.
Where were you? They searched my flat. I’m sure of it. I’m going to the police if you don’t call me.
The last message was from today—at eleven a.m.
You’re all over the news. Did you kill him? Call me or I’m going to the police—I’m serious. I’ll tell them everything you told me and everything I know about you. I’ve given a colleague a folder with all my notes. If something happens to me, it will be in the police’s hands within an hour.
Desmond’s mind raced. Was the person who left these messages an ally or an enemy? One thing was certain: that person knew who he was.
He set his phone up to use the Google Voice number and verified that he was connected to the flat’s WiFi; he wanted his next call to be routed through Google’s servers. The number that had left the voicemails had a Berlin extension. He clicked it from the app and listened as it rang.
A man’s voice answered, speaking in German-accented English. “What happened?”
“We need to meet,” Desmond said.
“No. I want answers—right now. Did you kill that man?”
“No,” Desmond said automatically, still unsure if it was true or not.
“Is this connected to the Looking Glass?”
The Looking Glass. The words instantly struck a chord. The Looking Glass—it meant something to him, but he couldn’t remember what.
“Are you still there?”
“Yes,” Desmond said. “I’ll explain when we meet.”
Silence for a long moment, then, “Someone’s following me. I’m staying with a friend, and I’ve told her everything. She’s got the recordings of our previous conversations. If it’s you—if you searched my flat and if something happens to me, she’s going to the authorities.”
“I understand. Believe me, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a victim too.”
A pause. Then he spoke with hesitation. “Where? When?”
Desmond considered a few options. He was exhausted, and he needed to prepare for the meeting. “Tomorrow at noon. The Brandenburg Gate. Stand in the tourist area, holding a sign that says Looking Glass Tours, prices negotiable. Wear a navy peacoat, blue jeans, and a blac
k hat with nothing on it.”
“You want to meet in public?”
“It’s safer that way. Leave your phone at home. Come alone. Unarmed.”
He snorted, sounding disgusted. “Says the man wanted for murder.”
“Being wanted for murder doesn’t mean I’m guilty of murder. You want answers, meet me tomorrow.”
“Fine.”
When the line went dead, Desmond began planning the meeting: every aspect, every possible contingency. If he played his cards right, he might soon know what was going on.
Chapter 10
That night, Dr. Elim Kibet made his rounds at Mandera Referral Hospital, then retreated to his office, where he took off his worn white coat and began writing an email to the Kenyan Ministry of Public Health:
To whom it may concern:
The situation here has deteriorated. I again implore you to send help with all possible haste.
The American male, who arrived here this morning and presented with symptoms of an as-yet-unidentified hemorrhagic fever, has died. We are ill equipped to perform an autopsy or handle his remains. I have sealed his room and barred anyone from entering.
His passing distressed his companion greatly. More concerning, the young man, who is named Lucas Turner, has developed a fever, most recently recorded at 102. I fear it will continue to climb and that he will soon develop symptoms similar to his now-deceased companion. If so, his fate may well be the same.
I have endeavored to keep detailed notes on his progression and have instructed the staff to take pictures on the hour. Frankly, documenting the disease is perhaps the only useful thing I can do. I have also dedicated much of my time to recording the details of the two Americans’ travel, including where they visited and whom they talked to. Additionally, I have asked Lucas about his friend’s history of symptoms. I believe it will prove quite helpful to epidemiologists investigating this outbreak. I will forward my notes as I have time.
The British patient, who was brought in from the airport, remains in critical condition. I’m not optimistic that he will survive the night.
Lastly, we face a new crisis here at MCRH: personnel. I arrived this morning to find that over half of the hospital’s staff did not report for work. I cannot blame them. As I have said, we are ill equipped to deal with these patients. I have instructed nurses to wear gowns, boot covers, facemasks, goggles, and double gloves, but I fear these measures may prove inadequate, and our supplies of protective equipment will very soon run out.
I ask you again:
Outside his office, a nurse yelled, “Dr. Kibet!”
Seconds later, the door swung open. The man was bent forward, his hands on his knees, catching his breath. “More infected,” he said between pants.
Elim grabbed his coat, and the two men raced down the corridor to triage. Elim stopped in his tracks, taking in the horror.
Ten people, all local villagers, all very sick. Sweat and vomit stains covered their clothes. A few stared with yellowed, bloodshot eyes.
A nurse drew a thermometer from a man’s mouth and turned to Elim. “A hundred and five.”
It had spread to the villages. Elim wondered if help would be too late—for all of them.
Chapter 11
When the Air Force transport reached cruising altitude, Peyton stretched out across several chairs, strapped herself in, and slept.
She had gotten only four hours of sleep the night before and had been going as hard as she could all day. Still, she set her alarm for only thirty minutes later. She wanted to be fresh but not groggy for what came next.
Perhaps the most valuable skill she’d acquired while working at the CDC was the ability to sleep nearly anywhere. It had taken her years to master the practice. For her, thinking was the greatest enemy of sleep. When she was battling an outbreak, her mind never stopped working; thinking became a compulsion. But during her second year of fieldwork, she had learned a sleep technique she’d used ever since. When she needed to rest, she closed her eyes, refused to let her mind think, and instead focused on her breathing. She first forced herself to draw her breaths into her belly, allowing her abdomen to expand, not her chest. With each exhalation, she focused on the tip of her nose, where the breath touched as it flowed out of her, and counted the breaths. She rarely got past forty.
When her phone alarm buzzed in her pocket, she rose, stretched, and did a few light exercises.
She had been given the option of flying on the air ambulance instead of the Air Force transport. She would have been more comfortable there, but she’d wanted to remain with her team. To Peyton, it was a matter of principle. Besides, they had work to do. She had insisted that three of the older CDC employees take the seats on the air ambulance. They would be working in Nairobi, in support positions, and all three had thanked her for the more comfortable accommodations.
Elliott had chosen the Air Force transport as well. It had a large compartment for cargo and a separate area for passengers. The passenger section had twelve rows, each with five seats in the center, plus a single row of seats lining each of the right and left walls. At the head of the compartment were two narrow openings beside a wide wall that held a whiteboard.
Peyton imagined that the whiteboard was routinely used to brief military personnel and hammer out mission details. She was about to do the same. In fact, to an outside observer, the scene might have looked like a US Navy mission briefing.
Her audience included men and women dressed in tan service khakis identical to the uniforms worn by the US Navy, with similar rank insignias. Her troops, however, were not naval officers. They were officers in another uniformed service, one every bit as important.
Peyton was a CDC employee, but she was also a Commissioned Corps officer of the US Public Health Service. The Commissioned Corps was an elite team of highly skilled health professionals and one of the United States’ seven uniformed services (the other six being the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines, Coast Guard, and National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration Commissioned Corps). Over six thousand men and women served in the Public Health Service Commissioned Corps, and they wore uniforms similar to the US Navy’s: service dress blues, summer whites, and service khakis. Commissioned Corps officers held the same ranks as the Navy and Coast Guard: ensign to admiral.
Commissioned Corps officers served at the EPA, FDA, DOD, NIH, USDA, Coast Guard, CDC, and many other organizations. They were often the first responders during national disasters, and had deployed in response to hurricanes, earthquakes, and outbreaks. In 2001, over one thousand PHS officers deployed to New York City after the 9/11 attacks. In 2005, in the aftermath of three hurricanes—Katrina, Rita, and Wilma—more than two thousand PHS officers deployed to set up field hospitals and assist victims.
Over eight hundred Commissioned Corps officers worked full-time at the CDC. Visitors often mistook them for Navy officers.
Peyton held the rank of full commander in the Commissioned Corps. Elliott held the rank of rear admiral. Of the 160 EIS officers, 102 were Commissioned Corps officers.
The Corps was also well represented in the group sitting before Peyton: of the 63 men and women present, 51 were Commissioned Corps officers. Like Peyton, they dressed in service khakis, the PHSCC insignia on their left lapel, their rank insignia on their right.
Peyton pulled her shoulder-length hair into a ponytail and smoothed out her rumpled uniform. She straightened the silver oak leaf that designated her rank and walked to the whiteboard.
Sixty-three faces focused on her. She saw nervousness and excitement and, above all else, trust—absolute trust in her ability to guide them through the coming deployment, to keep them safe, and to teach them what they needed to know. She felt the weight of their trust and the burden of her duty. She was an epidemiologist, but she considered her most important job to be that of a teacher. As an EIS instructor, it was her job to prepare her students for whatever they might encounter after their fellowship. The men and women who sat before her were the next
generation of public health leaders. And one day, one of them would likely be standing where she was: leading a future CDC mission, or a state or city health department, or conducting vital research for the National Institutes of Health.
Being a teacher was a role she relished, because it was so important, and because along her own career path she herself had been lucky enough to have good teachers who cared. Fifteen years ago, Peyton had been sitting in a crowd like this one. She had been one of these faces, and it had been Elliott standing before them, giving a similar talk. She remembered how nervous she was during her first deployment. She still felt a hint of those nerves. Sometimes she wondered if there was a little excitement mixed in—the thrill of the mission, the stakes, the chase to find the origin of the outbreak and stop it before a catastrophe occurred. She had come to live for days like these. Being in the middle of a crisis almost felt more natural to her than the downtime she spent in Atlanta.
Since it was a long flight and they would need to adjust to the eight-hour time difference between eastern Kenya and Atlanta, Peyton had decided to divide her briefing into two parts. The first would be background—information many of the full-time, seasoned CDC personnel knew by heart. Many of the EIS officers did too, but a refresher was prudent, and it was a great way to break the ice. This was the first foreign deployment for many of the officers, and Peyton knew they were nervous. Going over what they already knew would give them a boost of confidence.
