It was a very short list.
He tore a hole through the damaged windshield to get an unobscured view of the road ahead. The lead truck was braking, slowing down and dominating the center of the road to prevent him from passing. The side mirror showed him the grill of the trailing truck, looming large once more as it closed in for another bump. It was safe to assume that the drivers were coordinating their actions; King knew that his only hope lay in unpredictability.
He steered to the right side of the road. The pick-up immediately moved right in order to block him.
King swerved to the left, and again the truck did, too.
He did this twice more, testing the driver’s reaction time, and more importantly, getting familiar with the Corolla’s capabilities. The vehicle was not in the best shape, but thus far he’d seen no indication that it was on the verge of breaking down. The temperature gauge showed the engine running hot—not too hot yet, but he didn’t want to take the chance of it failing at a critical moment. He turned the heater on full blast, venting some of the heat into the car’s interior. With the windows shot out, he barely noticed.
He steered left again, all the way to the edge of the road. The truck followed suit. He then swerved right, exactly as he had before, putting the Corolla in what he hoped was the lead truck’s blind spot. The driver of the pick-up took the bait, pulling all the way to the right in order to prevent King from passing on that side.
King shifted the automatic transmission out of overdrive and stomped the gas pedal. Even as the truck was moving right, King steered left. The taxi surged ahead closing the gap before the other driver could react.
King kept one eye on the pick-up as the Corolla pulled alongside it. He caught a glimpse of the driver—a Caucasian man—snarling in frustration as he hauled the steering wheel left to cut King off, but he was too late. The taxi slipped past the Dodge. King had escaped their killing box.
He didn’t waste time congratulating himself. His situation was just marginally better than it had been thirty seconds earlier. His only hope lay in finding a way to lose his pursuers, and that meant getting off the highway where the trucks had the advantage of superior horsepower. With one eye on the road, he took out his phone.
Before leaving home, he had downloaded a city map of Addis Ababa. It wasn’t quite as useful as a live GPS, but it was better than nothing. He dragged his finger around the touch screen until he found the airport, and from there, was able to guess his present position, moving northeast along Ring Road, the major highway that circled the city.
The area near the airport was sparsely inhabited, with few access roads, but a more developed section of the city lay ahead. If he could make it there…get lost in the maze of surface streets and buildings…he just might have a chance.
If, he thought grimly.
The sound of hammer blows reverberated through the taxi’s frame and King ducked as bullets plucked at the upholstery of the seat beside him. He felt something tug at his right arm and a moment later his biceps started burning. He didn’t look; his arm was still working, so it probably wasn’t anything more than a graze, and besides, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
Then he realized, almost too late, that the shots had been a diversion. When he had ducked down instinctively, it had given the pick-up’s driver a chance to close in. The protective bumper guard that wrapped around the Ram’s front end filled the side mirror as the truck sidled up next to him.
In a rush of understanding, King realized that the other driver was trying to spin him. It was a technique taught in tactical driving courses; a carefully delivered hit to the rear wheel of a fleeing car could force it to spin around 180°, at which point the car’s momentum would be pulling against the direction of the drive wheels, causing the vehicle to stall instantly.
I took that class, too, asshole!
When the pick-up’s driver made his move, King was ready. As the Dodge veered toward him, he hit the brakes. The taxi was no longer where the driver of the pursuing truck thought it would be, but he had already committed himself to the maneuver. The truck swerved across the lane in front of the taxi, even as King accelerated again, steering the opposite direction to swing around on the other side.
It almost worked.
A crunch of metal shuddered through the taxi as the truck’s rear tire hooked the front end of the Corolla, and suddenly both vehicles were locked together, rolling over and over down the length of the road in a spectacular dance of mutual self-destruction.
2.
Sara Fogg hated traveling.
Perhaps “hate” was too strong a word. If her antipathy had been that strong, she surely would have chosen a different line of work.
Most of what she did as an infectious disease investigator for the CDC took place in the relatively safe confines of the laboratory, but like any other war, the battle to stop disease outbreaks before they could blossom into epidemics required her to be present on the front lines, and that meant travel, usually to unfamiliar and often remote locations around the world.
That, in and of itself, did not bother her. She wasn’t the least bit xenophobic; the world was a veritable buffet of diverse cultures, and she treasured each unique new encounter…well, most of them. Sara’s dislike for world travel and her preference for lab work, derived from a condition known as Sensory Processing Dysfunction, specifically a type of the disorder called Sensory Discrimination Disorder.
Normally, when a person receives sensory input, the signals travel from the sensory organs—eyes, ears, nose—to various parts of the brain where the stimuli is processed and reconciled with information already stored in that person’s memory. Smells and sounds and sights are compared with things that person has already experienced, and a sympathetic response is triggered. The smell of baking cookies might stimulate a person’s appetite. A loud noise might cause a release of adrenaline. But for someone with Sensory Discrimination Disorder, the nervous impulses don’t go where they’re supposed to. They might hear smells, or experience a seemingly unrelated physical reaction when exposed to a particular visual or auditory stimulus.
Because she had lived with it all her life, Sara didn’t really see her SDD as a liability. Indeed, it gave her an advantage in certain situations. Her heightened sensory abilities had saved her life during a mission with Jack Sigler and his team—several times, in fact—and when she had later been temporarily “cured” by exposure to an unusual quartz crystal, she had felt an acute sense of loss. Sometimes, she almost thought of the disorder as a “superpower.” But that didn’t make dealing with it in on a day-to-day basis any easier.
She had developed effective strategies for coping in the familiar environs of her home and at the CDC headquarters in Atlanta where she did most of her work, but going out into the field was always a challenge. Invariably, she would be exposed to a host of unfamiliar stimuli, and there was no predicting just how her nervous system would react.
She took a deep breath, bracing herself for the worst, then exhaled and opened the door of the rented SUV.
Addis Ababa was relatively modern. Despite the fact that some of the first humans on the planet had probably lived in Ethiopia, the city had only been founded in the late nineteenth century, and its founder, Emperor Menelik II, had envisioned it as an Imperial capital. Because of its remote location and relatively sparse resources, the city had not grown organically like most cities in the developing world, with small villages of farmers gradually coalescing around an urban core. Instead, it had immediately become a center for education and other professional endeavors. Nevertheless, the economic hardships that persistently plagued the region—the entire continent, really—had intensified the flood of migrants from rural areas into the city. Poverty was endemic, and despite the efforts of the government, some of the streets through which the CDC team had passed were thick with beggars. But unlike many cities in the developing world, the roads were paved and there wasn’t a camel, ox, or donkey to be seen.
> Sara took a cautious breath, but the expected sensory onslaught did not occur. There were sounds—traffic on the streets around the hospital—and smells—vehicle exhaust and something else…eucalyptus trees, she realized—but these weren’t unfamiliar to her.
So far, so good. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the SUV’s window. With her spiky dark hair and trim, athletic physique, she didn’t look like most people’s idea of a lab rat. At least she didn’t look as tired or anxious as she felt.
“Doctor Fogg?”
She turned to find a nervous looking Asian man, wearing short-sleeves and khakis, approaching her vehicle. “I’m Sara Fogg.”
“I am Dr. Hideoshi Nakamura, with the World Health Organization.” The man smiled, but his anxiety did not abate. “I am pleased to welcome you. But I will confess, I am uncertain why you have come.”
That caught Sara by surprise. When the CDC activated an investigative team to respond to an international incident, it was almost always at WHO’s instigation. “Uncertain? I don’t understand. Didn’t you request our help?”
“I know of no such request. The patient you inquired about…there is no evidence that she has contracted a contagious disease.”
“That’s my fault.” A new voice intruded, someone from heartland America, judging by the accent. Sara turned to greet the newcomer and saw a Caucasian man moving toward her, flashing a roguish smile. She thought he looked kind of like a young Harrison Ford—no, she amended, he looks like Han Solo. He quickened his step until he reached her, and thrust out a hand. “I’m Max Fulbright. Sorry about the confusion, but it was me that called you here.”
Sara warily accepted his handclasp. “Dr. Fulbright, is it? I think you owe us an explanation.”
“Oh, I’m not a doctor.” Fulbright’s smile never slipped. “I work out of the embassy, cultural attaché.”
Sara resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Cultural attaché” was usually a euphemism for “spy.” But if Fulbright was indeed a CIA officer—if the Central Intelligence Agency had a special interest in what might be an unidentified contagion—then it confirmed the suspicions that had plagued her from the beginning. From the moment the call came in, something about this incident had seemed off. She hadn’t been able to pin down exactly what it was, but her anxiety had prompted her to bend the rules just enough to send Jack Sigler a text message.
“The patient,” Fulbright continued, “is an American citizen. That’s how I got involved.”
“Dr. Nakamura just told me that there’s no evidence of infectious disease,” Sara countered, unmoved by his smile or his evident sincerity. “And he’s imminently more qualified than you to make that judgment. Do you have any idea how costly it is to spin up a CDC response team? And, what if there’s a real outbreak somewhere, while we’re here running down your false alarm? Lives could be lost. Mr. Fulbright, didn’t your mother ever tell you the story of the little boy who cried wolf?”
“With all due respect to Dr. Nakamura,” Fulbright gave a polite bow to the WHO representative, “I’d appreciate a second opinion. And Dr. Fogg, as you’ll recall, in the end, there really was a wolf.”
Sara sighed then glanced over her shoulder to where her team was already unpacking their gear. “Kerry, find out where they want us to set up.”
Kerry Frey was a compact man in his fifties, with a kindly face and glasses that made him look like an absent-minded professor instead of one of the world’s leading virologists. He was also Sara’s assistant in charge of personnel. Frey nodded and immediately headed for the hospital entrance.
Sara turned back to Fulbright. “Just because there’s smoke doesn’t mean there’s fire, but once the firemen arrive, they have to check it out anyway. You got us here, Fulbright, so that’s what we’re going to do: check it out.”
“I couldn’t hope for anything more.”
Sara shook her head in resignation, and then joined the rest of her team as they unpacked their rented vehicles. The team moved with practiced efficiency, shuttling the heavy plastic cases containing their portable lab equipment into the hospital. Everyone in the team knew exactly what their job was; her role as team leader did not excuse Sara from pack mule duty. The first priority in any outbreak situation was establishing the command center and laboratory facilities, and that meant everyone had to pitch in to get the equipment up and running. In this case, the area designated for their use was a conference room on the first floor of the hospital.
The second priority was to assess the infected patient.
While Frey and the rest of the team started breaking out computer hardware, Sara began donning a one-piece, single-use Level A hazmat suit, made from disposable Tyvek.
“Can I get one of those?”
Sara realized that Fulbright had followed her team into the conference room. Dr. Nakamura was nowhere to be seen.
“Sorry, none to spare.” She resisted the impulse to make a dig about his lack of any kind of meaningful qualifications. She’d already made her point, and given the size of Fulbright’s ego, it seemed likely that further comment on that subject would just bounce right off the man.
As she pulled the suit around her shoulders, leaving the headgear off for the moment, Nakamura entered the room, accompanied by a handsome bearded black man wearing a white lab coat. The WHO representative made the introduction. “This is Dr. Abdullah. He has been treating the patient.”
Abdullah’s eyes drifted to the hazmat suit and he swallowed nervously. “When we heard you were coming, we moved her—Miss Carter, the patient—to an isolation room on the fourth floor, but… We have very limited resources here.”
Sara surmised that the Ethiopian doctor was probably wondering if he had unknowingly contracted some horrible virus. “The suits are just a precautionary measure. I’m sure they’re not necessary, but I have to follow our protocol.”
The doctor nodded, evincing a measure of relief.
Sara grabbed a specimen collection kit. “I’d like to see her right away.”
“Of course.” He gestured for her to follow. Not surprisingly, Fulbright joined them as if he had every right to. As they walked, Abdullah brought Sara up to date on the patient’s history. “The patient was brought to us three days ago. We haven’t been able to ascertain the identity of the man who dropped her off. She was catatonic, but clearly suffering from dehydration.”
“How did you identify her?”
“She wore a badge from a research firm; Nexus Genetics. We were able to learn that she was part of an expedition to the Afar region—the Great Rift Valley. Nexus has not been forthcoming with information about Miss Carter or the purpose of the expedition.”
“Geneticists doing field research in the Rift Valley?” Sara didn’t like the sound of that. She made a mental note to check up on Nexus at the earliest opportunity. “I suppose there’s a chance they might have been exposed to something contagious, but that’s a pretty remote area. If she’s picked up something, she would have got it from an animal or possibly a windborne vector. Possibly a bacillus or fungal spore. I doubt we’re looking at anything communicable.
“But,” she added, as they filed into an elevator car, “it is more probable that it’s just a case of dehydration. How is she responding to therapy?”
Abdullah pressed a button on the control panel. “Her vital signs have improved. Blood tests confirm that her organs are functioning properly, and her white blood cell count is normal. However, she has not regained consciousness.”
“Was she injured?” Even as she asked, Sara knew that there was a much more likely explanation: psychological trauma.
Abdullah confirmed her suspicions. “I believe her condition may be psychosomatic. When she arrived, she was holding an object—clinging to it, like a lifeline. When we tried to take it from her, she became agitated, almost to the point of cardiac arrest. We decided to let her keep it.”
“What object?”
The elevator car settled to a stop and the doors slid open.
Sara’s senses were immediately hit with the smell unique to hospitals—a mixture of sickness and heavy duty disinfectant that grew stronger as they moved through the hallway. It was a like a siren, blaring in her head, but Abdullah’s answer shocked her out of her sensory fugue.
“A skull. An ape skull, I think.”
Sara almost gasped aloud. A primate skull in the hands of a geneticist suspected of being a carrier for an unknown contagion? Now she was certain that Fulbright knew more than he was letting on, and suddenly wearing the hazmat suit didn’t seem quite so unnecessary.
But there was a piece that still didn’t fit. “I didn’t know there were apes in that part of the Rift Valley.”
“I don’t believe there are. But the skull looks very old. A fossil, perhaps. As I said, she became agitated when we tried to take it away, so we have left it alone.” He stopped at a closed door, but made no move to enter. “This is her room.”
There was a sign taped to the door, and even though she couldn’t read Amharic, Sara had a pretty good idea what it said. Ideally, there should have been a number of other contamination control measures—a negative air pressure system, rubber seals on the door, plastic sheeting at the very least—but as both Abdullah and Nakamura had stated, there was no reason to believe that the patient was sick with a contagious disease. She nodded to the men, and then tugged the suit’s cowl over her head and zippered herself in. The hospital odor vanished as oxygen began to flow from the suit’s self-contained breathing apparatus. All three men conspicuously took a step back as she reached for the door handle.
Beyond that portal was an ordinary hospital room. A tall, dark-skinned woman, covered in a simple white sheet, lay supine upon a very ordinary hospital bed. Sara listened to the gentle hiss of air in her suit for a moment, waiting to see if the woman would stir—she did not—then moved forward.
Callsign: King - Book I (A Jack Sigler - Chess Team Novella) Page 3
