Kohlhaas felt a strange combination of extreme vulnerability and defiance. There was no doubt that he was on borrowed time. The vultures were circling. They had applied a ton of pressure to Kohlhaas. They had appealed to his economic interest, and when that hadn’t worked, they had appealed to his fear of losing his position, and, finally, when that hadn’t worked either, they had gone to work on his family.
It would only be a matter of time before they changed their tack. Right now, he had the keys to the kingdom, and they were earnestly trying to get him to share. But they would eventually lose patience. They would eventually just kill him, step over his corpse, and take what they wanted.
More and more, Kohlhaas saw the manila envelope as harbinger. It was designed to communicate the checkmate they had attained. There was no move he could make which they couldn’t thwart, and there was no person in Kohlhaas’ world who couldn’t be reached. Harmed.
Killed.
The images flew across his consciousness in an uncontrollable flood. They were unbearable. Distraction was his only defense against the debilitating grief, anger, despair. And fear.
He should just give in. It would be easier.
And he might very well have done just that, if he believed even for a moment that they would leave him and his family alone after they got what they wanted.
But those odds were just north of zero. If Kohlhaas capitulated, he wouldn’t just become a conquered CEO of an upstart company with a bright idea. If he gave in to their demands, he would become a witness. A loose end. It took no imagination to figure out how that kind of a scenario would play out, for him and for what remained of his family.
So he resolved, again, to persevere. The only way to survive was to win, to make this horrendous game of cat-and-mouse irrelevant. To beat them to market.
He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, willed his stomach to unknot, willed his hands to stop shaking. He pushed the intercom button and asked his secretary to have Albert LeBeque stop by.
“He wants to know if he can just call you,” the secretary replied a moment later. “He says he’s up to his elbows.”
Kohlhaas sighed. This couldn’t be done by phone. Never by phone. Security rule number one.
The movement would do him good, he decided as he rose from his leather chair. He walked slowly but deliberately to Synergique’s inner sanctum, a tightly controlled environment with just the right temperature and humidity, full of biological gear that Kohlhaas still felt slightly afraid of.
Kohlhaas found Albert LeBeque, Synergique’s chief scientist, with his hands stuck in the thick rubber gloves that reached inside a sterilized bio-containment cart. The gloves were mounted on a thick plexiglass panel, and permitted LeBeque to manipulate samples manually without exposing himself to the deadly diseases they contained.
“I have serious news,” LeBeque said gravely. He looked stone-faced at Kohlhaas.
Kohlhaas’ stomach tightened. The last thing he needed was more serious news.
“I think you should sit down for this,” LeBeque said, removing his hands from the thick rubber gloves and wiping his sweaty palms on his lab coat.
Kohlhaas straightened. “Just tell me what you have to tell me,” he said, steeling himself.
“As you wish,” LeBeque said, his French accent turning a wish into a weesh.
LeBeque’s face suddenly erupted into an improbably large smile. “It works!”
Kohlhaas let out the breath he had been holding. In spite of himself, he crushed his chief scientist in a heartfelt bear hug. “Oh, goddamn, yes,” he said over and over again. Tears found their way down his cheeks, and he hustled to clear them away, but he saw that LeBeque was just as emotional.
It was a glorious moment, the kind of good news that Kohlhaas’ battered psyche had desperately needed, and that his battered company needed even more.
It was over. They had done it.
Well, almost over, Kohlhaas reflected. “How soon can you have the test batch done?” he asked.
LeBeque shrugged, his smile dimming a few watts. “How many deposition vats do we have up and running?”
Kohlhaas shook his head. If that oaf Barnes would get off his fat ass and crush the security leak, they’d be ready for production in days. But until then…
“Guess you’ve answered your own question,” LeBeque said, disappointment evident in his voice. “Anyway, we don’t have enough substrate for a full test batch. So once we have at least one deposition vat up and running, and when that shipment of substrate arrives, I’ll have a test batch ready inside of a day.”
Kohlhaas nodded. “When does the substrate arrive?”
LeBeque shook his head. “Depends on whether the truckers strike.”
Goddamn French, Kohlhaas cursed silently, painfully aware that he was a Dane sitting atop a French company. An entire nation of layabouts and teat-suckers. How Napoleon rallied these people to victory I’ll never understand. “Very well,” he finally said, after he trusted himself to speak. “Send a driver to get the substrate. Someone you trust implicitly. We’ll have those deposition vats up and running as fast as possible.”
LeBeque nodded. “You should be aware of something, though,” he said.
Kohlhaas raised his eyebrows questioningly.
“It’s not that the bacteria will probably adapt its way around this drug’s mechanism,” LeBeque said. “It is a certainty. Life always finds a way. But it’s a question of when it will happen.”
“How long?” Kohlhaas asked.
LeBeque shook his head. “It’s a stochasticity situation.”
“Luck?” Kohlhaas asked.
“Oui. Luck. Pure chance. The bacteria could develop an effective gene mutation to sidestep the drug’s mechanism at any time. It could be tomorrow, or it could be ten years from now.”
Kohlhaas nodded. He understood. It was the nature of the business. When you fought against living organisms, living organisms always fought back.
He turned to leave, but thought of another question: “Assuming the test batch turns out favorably, how long until our first production batch?”
LeBeque smiled and held a single finger in the air. “One day.”
Kohlhaas smiled, nodded, and left the room.
One day. It was exciting news. There was still so much to be done, so many obstacles to overcome, so many problems to conquer, but the most important thing had fallen perfectly into place. Their new drug worked. It stopped gram negative, pandrug resistant bacteria from subdividing. The little bastards lived full bacteria lives inside their hosts, and then died of natural causes, without reproducing! Such an elegant, beautiful, powerful solution.
Another thought struck him. With things happening so quickly, there were other preparations to make. Preparations that he couldn’t discuss with another living soul, except for one.
And no discussion was necessary. The Iraqi already knew exactly what to do. He also had the tools to do it. And the sample. Jim Firth had made sure of that, just prior to his Saturday stop at Synergique.
It was all coming into focus, all falling into place.
Now, if we can survive long enough to pull it off, Kohlhaas thought glumly.
He looked at his watch. Mariete would be departing for Cologne in two hours. Though he wanted to do almost anything else, anything else in the world, he knew that he had no choice but to see his wife before she left to claim the body of their dead son.
The crushing heaviness descended again on Viktor Kohlhaas’ mind and heart, and he prepared to do the one thing he dreaded most.
It was time to go home.
16
“Come on, baby,” Evelyn Paulson said, her fingers clenched around little Sarah’s emaciated hand, her voice muffled by the biohazard helmet on her head. “Come on, Sarah.” Her voice was breaking, and she had long ago stopped trying to wipe the tears from her eyes, shielded as they were behind the hard plastic that separated healthy people from the devastating infection that was destroying her daughter�
��s nine-year-old body.
“Give us a sign, girl,” the nurse said. “Anything at all. You could sing a tune, do a little tap dance, snap your fingers, any little thing your heart desires, baby girl.”
Evelyn had to smile despite the horrific circumstances. The nurses had been amazing with Sarah. Even now, down to the last, they radiated love and humor to her stricken little girl.
“Baby girl,” Evelyn said. “My baby girl.” The tears flowed freely. “I want you to stay with me.” She squeezed Sarah’s hand.
The little girl’s hand stayed devastatingly limp. There was no turgor. There was no movement. She offered no pressure in response to her mom’s pleas, and she didn’t return her mother’s desperate grip.
“Sarah, please stay. Please fight,” Evelyn pleaded. “I loved you from the moment I saw you. I can’t lose you too, baby girl.” Her shoulders hunched as she cried, wracked by anguished sobs.
Evelyn saw tears in the nurse’s eyes, too. The nurse shook her head. She opened Sarah’s eyelids one at a time, checking for pupil dilation, hoping against the odds that Sarah’s eyes would focus, would find the concerned faces hovering over her.
There was no indication that Sarah was a living, sentient being. The disease had so ravaged her body that her brain was starved of glucose and oxygen. Cell death was unavoidable. Sarah’s death appeared inevitable.
The nurse shook her head. “I’m sorry, dear,” she said to Evelyn. “I’m so sorry.”
Evelyn sat alone with Sarah for another half hour, begging her daughter to fight, to stay alive, to stay in her life.
Evelyn’s sobs drained her own life energy. Finally she rose, enervated, defeated. She looked one last time at Sarah. No words came. She turned to leave.
And then she felt it.
Sarah’s hand squeezed her own.
Evelyn’s head snapped back to face Sarah, whose eyes were still closed and unmoving. Was it a mistake? Had Evelyn imagined it? “Sarah?”
She felt it again.
And again, stronger now.
“Sarah!” Evelyn cried, mashing the nurse call button. Fresh tears formed in Evelyn’s bloodshot eyes, and her body shook. Sarah was fighting. She wasn’t going to go quietly. “Sarah, I’m here for you baby!” she yelled, her voice obscured by her tears and the biohazard suit. “We’re going to beat this!”
Evelyn didn’t know how much time had passed since Sarah had awakened. It had gone by so quickly, and felt so wonderful. Heavenly, really. The doctors and nurses were all very happily surprised with Sarah’s rapid turnaround. There was no longer any talk of removing her from the ventilator. The talk was now whether her rally could continue, whether her weakened immune system could fight off the disease completely.
They were talking about how much function Sarah would retain after recovery. Recovery! Evelyn was beside herself with joy. She’d been facing the prospect of returning to an empty home full of reminders of the two people who had been closest to her, and who were now gone. But hope had returned, and even though it was clear that Sarah was still in grave danger, Evelyn had a smile in her heart. She’s rounded a corner.
Nature called. Evelyn went through the lengthy decontamination process to exit the isolation ward at the NIH hospital. She emerged from the process in her sweat pants, Colorado tee shirt, and slippers, and she padded to the restroom on the clean side of the air lock.
On her way back to the waiting area, she heard someone call her name. A tall man, fiftyish, with a sharp beak and kind eyes. “Fred Farnsworth,” he said, his hand extended.
Evelyn recognized him. “You’re the CDC guy, aren’t you? I saw you on TV.”
Farnsworth nodded. “I’m up from Atlanta. I head up the infectious diseases directorate. Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”
Evelyn didn’t mind. Farnsworth produced a yellow legal pad and a government issue ballpoint pen from his laptop bag. “I’d really like to understand as much as possible about what has happened to your daughter. Sarah, is it?”
Evelyn nodded. “That’s right. She’s just come out of her coma.”
Farnsworth’s smile was genuine, Evelyn could tell. “Congratulations. Wow, that’s such a relief,” he said, motioning her into a nearby physician’s office. “This shouldn’t take long,” he said.
But he was wrong. It took over an hour. He took copious notes, and asked extremely detailed questions about Sarah’s lifestyle, hygiene, habits, friends, activities, and the like. He apologized frequently for what seemed like invasive questions, but he assured Evelyn that his intent was to understand Sarah’s infection as thoroughly as possible, in order to hopefully find a cure, or at least to prevent others from being stricken by the horrific disease.
Evelyn didn’t mind the third-degree. Talking about everything was cathartic, actually. She’d basically taken up residence in Sarah’s room, but her interactions with the medical staff had mostly been from behind the protective masks that everyone had to wear inside the quarantine ward, and particularly in Sarah’s room. The effect was profoundly isolating, and it was only through talking with Dr. Farnsworth that Evelyn realized how much she had withdrawn into herself.
She felt herself coming alive again. The pressure and heartbreak had nearly broken her, she realized. Perhaps her emotional recovery mirrored Sarah’s physical one. Miles to go, but on the right track.
Farnsworth was also very interested in hearing more about the individual who had taken a sample of Sarah’s blood a few nights earlier, and had placed it in an ice-filled lunch cooler. Evelyn told him everything she’d told the FBI, which wasn’t much. She didn’t know much about the man, had never seen him before or since, and at the time, she’d had no real reason to suspect anything untoward. Farnsworth put on a thoughtful look, but he didn’t ask any more questions.
“Thank you very much for your time and for your candor, Ms. Paulson,” Dr. Farnsworth concluded. She assured him it wasn’t a problem at all, and she told him how much she hoped they’d find a way to stop this bug.
“About that,” Dr. Farnsworth said, concern returning to his face. “In these circumstances, it’s not unusual for certain people to approach concerned family members such as yourself. These people often claim to have an experimental drug that has shown a great deal of promise in the lab, but that hasn’t yet concluded trials.” Farnsworth frowned, and pushed his glasses back up his sharp, aquiline nose. “When a patient’s disease has exhausted the limits of approved medications,” he went on, sounding very much like a government guy, “these individuals may offer frightened and aggrieved patients and family members access to experimental drugs.”
Evelyn’s eyebrows arched.
“Ms. Paulson, I have to caution you against attempting such measures. The temptation can be overwhelming, because you want the absolute best for Sarah. But these drugs have unknown side effects. Offering unapproved drugs is highly illegal, and with good reason. The drugs are sometimes fatal.”
Evelyn nodded. “I understand. Do you think someone is going to offer something for Sarah?”
Dr. Farnsworth shook his head. “I don’t think so. There really isn’t much research going on in this field, unfortunately. I just mention it to you so that, on the off chance it does happen, you don’t unwittingly place Sarah at even greater risk.”
The CDC researcher left.
Evelyn felt her stomach grumble. She hadn’t eaten for hours. As she made her way toward the vending machines, she thought more about what Farnsworth had said about experimental drugs. It sounded sketchy, to be sure.
But a question popped into her head. Could she just sit there and watch her precious Sarah waste away if someone were to offer a potential cure, even if unproven? Could she really refuse a new form of treatment?
The answer was clear. Hell no. There was no way on earth she could refuse the drug. After enduring what she had just endured over the past couple of days, she knew it in her bones. She would walk to the ends of the earth and back if it could possibly help Sarah ma
ke it through this ordeal. No matter what some bureaucrat said, she would take the unproven medication, and gratefully.
She ate a candy bar, suited up, and returned to Sarah’s room. Her daughter’s tired smile was about the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.
17
The man in the blue raincoat exited the hotel, a soft curse on his lips. The morning had been both success and failure. How would his employer take the news? Time would tell.
He looked in both directions down the sidewalk in front of the hotel, searching for the forty-something drunk he’d found and nearly caught, but the man was gone. He walked west to the corner, waited for the light, and crossed the street with the other foot traffic, then headed back east in the direction of the hotel, but on the opposite side of the street.
He ducked into a German stube, or beer house, that looked popular and well-trafficked. It was a cold, damp February day, and the outdoor section was closed, so the man chose a table right next to the window. It afforded an unobstructed view of the hotel entrance across the street. He ordered a coffee, donned a pair of reading glasses, grabbed a newspaper from the adjacent tabletop, and pretended to read.
Half an hour passed. There was no sign of his quarry. He had to make the call.
He didn’t recognize the country code as he dialed, and he didn’t want to know. The less he knew, the better. At least, that’s what he told himself, because it felt safer that way. He was a consultant, good at a few unsavory things, and he prided himself on staying uninvolved in agendas and politics.
The phone rang, then went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message, because messages were permanent and subject to subpoena, if it ever came down to it. Instead, he hung up, expecting his employer to return the call when it was convenient.
The convenient time, it turned out, was fifteen seconds later. “Positive ID,” the man in the blue raincoat said after not-so-pleasant pleasantries. “I got a good look at the computer screen. But negative on part two, unfortunately. He’s very skittish, and bolted before I could chat with him.”
The Essential Sam Jameson / Peter Kittredge Box Set: SEVEN bestsellers from international sensation Lars Emmerich Page 93
