Fatal

by Michael Palmer

  “Sherrie, hon, wake up,” Sue gushed. “You have a visitor, a very special visitor. Here, I’m going to wipe your face with a cool cloth. Good. Are you awake?”

  “I’m awake. What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Cleary, how about you? Are you awake?”

  “Sure. Who’s here?”

  “I’d tell you, but I think you’re going to have to see for yourself.” She went quickly to the door and called out into the hallway. “They’re ready for you now.”

  The wife of the President of the United States, unaccompanied, strode calmly into the room and crossed directly to Sherrie’s side. Sherrie’s and Don’s expressions made it clear no introduction was necessary.

  “Mrs. Cleary,” she said just the same, “I’m Lynette Marquand. Congratulations on your beautiful daughter. You, too, Mr. Cleary.”

  “Thank you,” Sherrie managed. “Thank you. This is such a surprise.”

  “Well, it’s a pleasure for me to be here on such a joyous occasion,” Lynette said. “Mr. Cleary, Mrs. Cleary, I have some wonderful news for you.”

  CHAPTER 23

  THE SIERRA LEONE EMBASSY IN D.C. WAS ON 19TH street, not far from the PAVE offices. Once a stately town house, it had fallen into fairly impressive disrepair. The drapes and carpeting were tawdry, and the air-conditioning consisted of scattered window units, some of which did not appear to be working. Ellen had been in embassies before—Canada, Mexico, and France. There was absolutely nothing in any of those facilities that was as outdated as anything in this one.

  She had arrived on time, but it was clear from the torpor of the young man behind the reception desk that she would be seen by His Excellency Andrew Strawbridge when it happened. The waiting area—six nondescript, straight-back wooden chairs and three end tables—was devoid of any reading material save several copies of an ancient propaganda pamphlet extolling the virtues of Sierra Leone, and a dog-eared copy of Time. It was just as well the ambassador wasn’t ready to see her, Ellen thought. She needed time to compose herself and regain her focus. At the moment, there was someone displacing both Lassa fever and Omnivax from her mind, namely Rudy Peterson.

  As she had done any number of times, Ellen had slept over in the guest room of Rudy’s cabin. She was anxious about the Lassa fever revelations he had shared with her and also the meeting with Strawbridge. After a few hours of fitful sleep, she climbed out of bed, pulled on the terry-cloth robe Rudy had put out for her, brewed some coffee, and brought her notes up to his second-floor study. It was not yet four-thirty in the morning. She was searching for a pen in the top right-hand drawer of his desk when she spied the envelope. It was on the very bottom of a pile of papers and would have escaped her notice except that her name and address were on it, written in Rudy’s precise hand. There was also a stamp pasted in the upper right corner, but not postage enough to get the envelope mailed. Ellen wondered, correctly as it turned out, if perhaps the letter had been written some time ago, when rates were less.

  She slipped the envelope back in the drawer and for the next half hour tried to convince herself not to retrieve it. She had always been a curious sort—probably more so than most—and she had an affinity for gossip that often embarrassed her. Given her makeup, this discovery was a tough one to resist. And at nearly five in the morning, she wasn’t as detached and analytical as she was capable of being. Over those thirty minutes, her rationalizations became increasingly lame. If Rudy hadn’t meant for her to see it, why had he left it in his desk where she might well come across it? If he was agonizing over whether or not to mail it, wouldn’t she be saving him anguish? As absurd and flawed as her reasoning was, she still managed, bit by bit, to bury her common sense beneath it. Almost before she realized she had actually done it, the envelope was open in her hands. Her resolve not to read the contents lasted only seconds.

  Dear Ellen,

  I suppose the best thing I can do is just get this part out of the way first. I love you. I have since the day Howie first brought you into our dorm room and introduced us. It’s been four years now since he left your home, and here I am as much in love with you as ever, knowing you have never felt that way about me. What to do?

  As you know, I dated a fair amount over the years following our first meeting. I slept with some of those women, and even tried to get serious with a couple of them. But I always knew I wasn’t being fair to them. Then, a few years before he broke up your marriage, Howie started telling me in our man-to-man talks that he wasn’t being faithful to you. I wanted to tell you then what he was doing and how I had always felt about you. But it just seemed, I don’t know, wrong. With that painful knowledge and my feelings for you, I still couldn’t stop being his best friend. For that I’m ashamed.

  Well, now Howie’s been gone for quite a while and I see the way you’ve bounced back. You tell me about all you’ve been doing, and even about dates you’ve been on. That has hurt. “I’m right here!” I want to shout. “Right under your nose! And I’ve loved you for thirty-five years.”

  I probably won’t send this letter, but maybe I will. Either way, I think it’s great that you have accepted the position on that vaccine commission, and that you have asked me to assist with some research. I promise to do everything in my power to help you become an expert in the field. I wish I were a little more colorful and charismatic and a little less shy, but hey, I am who I am. And I don’t regret the path my life has taken one bit.

  I just thought maybe it was time that you knew.

  Your devoted friend,

  Rudy

  ELLEN LOOKED UP from the frayed patch she had been studying on the Oriental rug in the embassy’s waiting area, and realized that Andrew Strawbridge’s attaché was smiling over at her.

  “Soon,” he said in a velvety English accent. “Ambassador Strawbridge will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you. I’m fine to wait.”

  The letter was still in her purse. Rudy had gotten up around six and, without realizing she was upstairs in the study, went out to the backyard where he did twenty minutes of tai chi—fairly advanced tai chi from what she could tell. She knew he practiced the beautifully controlled martial art, and from time to time had watched him work out alone in his yard. She had never thought of asking to join him, and true to his reserved nature, he had never pushed the possibility on her. This morning, though, she studied him as he practiced. Later on, during a breakfast of mushroom and Brie crepes that he had cooked to perfection, she learned that he taught tai chi classes in a nearby community hall.

  Several times she came close to bringing up the letter and admitting what she had done, but each time she pulled back. When they embraced as she was preparing to leave for D.C., as they had done hundreds of times over the years, it was as if they were touching for the first time.

  Why didn’t you just put the darn thing in the mail when you were supposed to? she was thinking as she drove off.

  “Mrs. Kroft? Mrs. Kroft, I’m Andrew Strawbridge,” the ambassador said, his voice rich and melodic.

  Startled out of her reverie a second time, Ellen leapt awkwardly to her feet, mumbled an apology, and took the ambassador’s hand. He was a short, slight, dapper man, with warm, deep-brown eyes and rich black skin. His face was slightly pocked from what she assumed was a childhood infection.

  “Thank you for coming out to greet me personally,” she said.

  “Leighton’s already gotten out of his chair once,” he replied, winking, “I didn’t want to tax him. The truth is, I came out myself because your call yesterday intrigued me and I was anxious to meet you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You said you were on the commission that recently approved the supervaccine?”

  “I was. Only I didn’t end up voting for or against its approval. I abstained.”

  “Sometimes, abstention is a very powerful statement,” he said.

  He led her into a spacious, mahogany-paneled office, with a conference table and a wall of well-stocked bookshelve
s. A framed green-, white-, and blue-striped flag hung behind the expansive desk. The other two walls featured the usual photos of diplomats and dignitaries shaking hands with each other, as well as a large, framed map of Sierra Leone.

  “Coffee? Tea?” he asked. “I joke about Leighton, but he is excellent help for me, and he brews a superb cup of coffee.”

  Ellen pictured the small armies of employees manning the other embassies she had visited.

  “In that case, I’ll have mine black,” she said.

  “Leighton, black coffee for Mrs. Kroft, please. The usual for me.” He left the door ajar and motioned her to a seat across the desk. “So, now, you have come to talk with me about a vaccine.”

  “Yes, against Lassa fever.”

  Strawbridge sighed.

  “A touchy subject with us, I’m afraid, Mrs. Kroft.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The company that developed Lasaject about ten years ago is Columbia Pharmaceuticals, located not far from here.”

  “I know that.”

  “From all we can tell, the vaccine is very effective. Do you agree?”

  “Yes and no,” Ellen said. “The vaccine was tested in a very small group of people in your country, and did seem to be protective. But for some reason, the testing was stopped. The vaccine was evaluated later on in a larger group here in the States.”

  Strawbridge nodded knowingly and chewed on his lower lip. Ellen sensed he was debating how much of the truth to tell her.

  “Unfortunately,” he said finally, “at the time Columbia was trying to evaluate Lasaject, our country was in a certain amount of, how should I say, turmoil. They chose to pull their people out and test their vaccine elsewhere.”

  “That’s the testing I mentioned that was done here. But instead of measuring protection against Lassa fever, they measured protective antibody levels stimulated by the vaccine. Columbia’s report to our Food and Drug Administration states that the inoculations did very well in that regard.”

  “I’m very happy for them,” Strawbridge said sarcastically. “Alas, not one person in my country has benefited from their research. I’m sure it comes as no surprise for you to hear that Sierra Leone is hardly a wealthy country. The two people at the head of Columbia, a woman virologist and another doctor, came to Freetown and met with our health ministry. Regrettably, they could not find, how should I say, common financial ground to initiate a mass vaccination program.”

  “I’m sorry. I read that the World Health Organization was reluctant to get involved until the political unrest was resolved.”

  Strawbridge’s dark eyes blazed, then just as quickly softened.

  “Unfortunately, there has been some discord in our country,” he said, “but not enough to deprive millions of a medical breakthrough.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Ellen was embarrassed to find herself at that moment thinking about Rudy—how much more comfortable she would be feeling if he were there with her, how foolish she had been to open his letter to her. Why in the hell hadn’t he ever spoken up?

  “So,” the ambassador was saying, “when you called, you presented me with two tasks.”

  “I know what I was asking might be difficult.”

  Strawbridge smiled patiently.

  “We may not be able to afford Columbia Pharmaceuticals’ exorbitant rates for their vaccine,” he said, “but gratefully, we can afford computers. Your first question had to do with the number of cases of Lassa fever that have occurred in Americans.”

  “Over the last three years, yes.”

  “Well, I am not allowed to give you the names because of my nation’s rules on medical confidentiality. But I can tell you that over the past three years there have been six cases of Lassa fever in Americans in Sierra Leone, two of whom died.”

  “That’s all? Six?”

  “Three of those were hospital workers.”

  Six cases in Americans in three years in a country where Lassa fever was endemic. Eighteen cases in three years in Americans flying back from West Africa.

  “Curiouser and curiouser,” Ellen said.

  “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll,” Strawbridge exclaimed. “It is one of my favorite books.”

  “Mine, too. Well, Your Excellency, for the past week or so, that’s precisely where I feel like I’ve been—Wonderland.”

  “Mrs. Kroft, are you at some point going to tell me what this is all about?”

  Ellen felt herself blush.

  “Ambassador Strawbridge, I’m truly sorry for seeming so oblique. I beg you to be patient with me. I’m investigating some loose ends surrounding the Lasaject vaccine. That’s as much as I feel comfortable sharing right now.”

  “Is there something wrong with the vaccine?”

  “No. I have no reason to think so.”

  “You will keep me posted?”

  “As soon as I have any firm information.”

  Ellen held her breath as the diplomat pondered his situation.

  “In that case,” he said finally, “let us move on to your second request.”

  “The passenger manifests.”

  Rudy’s contact at the CDC had obtained the flight each American Lassa fever victim had taken getting back to the States. Ten of them had flown from Freetown to London on Sierra National Air, and from London to various cities in the U.S. The other eight had flown Ghana Air from Freetown to Accra, Ghana, and then directly to Baltimore. Their hope was that the passenger manifests might provide a recurring name—maybe indicating a carrier of the disease.

  “You know,” Strawbridge said, “we diplomats are taught never to give away something for nothing. If I hand over these documents, I do have a request of my own.”

  “Yes?”

  “Ever since they chose to hang on to their vaccine until we could meet their price demands, my government has been very disappointed with the people at Columbia Pharmaceuticals. If there is any way you uncover that we might, how should I say, make life more difficult for them, I would like your word that you will let me know.”

  ELLEN SAT ON a sunlit bench in DuPont Circle, cradling her cell phone in her lap and following one passing couple after another. Andrew Strawbridge had come through not only with the passenger manifests of the Sierra National flights, but with those of Ghana Air as well. The next logical step would be to interview some of the few surviving Lassa fever victims. She had enough of a credit line on her Visa to make any necessary flights.

  Since the confrontation in her living room with the monster who threatened her grandchild, she had been consumed with finding a way to bring the production and distribution of Omnivax to a halt without endangering Lucy or anyone else in her family. The man’s huge head, soulless eyes, and hallmark scar burned in her mind. Somehow she was going to find him. She was going to find him, and when she did, she would also find the means to destroy him in as painful a way as possible. Surprisingly to her, over the days since he appeared in her living room with his smugness and his threats, she had realized in her heart that she was perfectly capable of killing such a man. But in the meantime, she would take whatever chances were necessary to bring down those who had hired him. The problem was that, suddenly, she didn’t want to do it alone.

  Over the years since Howard’s departure she had managed to hold her vulnerability and loneliness in check. Reading Rudy’s letter had changed things. Suddenly she felt uncertain and frightened. The last thing she needed at this point was to lose her incisiveness—to dilute in any way the hatred that was driving her. But that was exactly what appeared to be happening.

  The first of the cases on the list Rudy had obtained did not answer the phone and had no machine or service. A man answered Ellen’s second call and assured her that, yes, his wife had survived her terrible illness, and yes, they would be happy to meet with Ellen after his wife returned home from work.

  Next Ellen called information and jotted down the number of United Airlines. Then, barely realizing what
she was doing, she dialed Rudy’s cabin.

  “Hello?”

  “Rudy, hi, it’s me.”

  “Calling from the big city?” he asked with a make-believe twang.

  “DuPont Circle.”

  “How’d ya make out?”

  “Six cases in three years, Rudy. That’s the sum total of all the Americans infected with Lassa in Sierra Leone. Six. Three were hospital workers.”

  Rudy whistled.

  “I don’t think I need my degree in statistics to know that ain’t very many compared with those who got infected on those airplane flights,” he said.

  “I think not. Strawbridge gave me the manifests, too. All eighteen of them. I’ve already contacted one of the patients from your list. She lives outside of Chicago.”

  “Going to go see her?”

  “I want to.”

  “Well, I say go for it.”

  “Rudy?”

  “Yes?”

  “I . . . I want you to come with me.”

  “Hey, that’s very nice of you. When are you going?”

  “Today. This afternoon.”

  “Oh, shoot. I’m really sorry, El, but I have a class to teach and a private lesson. I’m afraid tomorrow’s tight, too. I have this family of Russian immigrants that I teach English grammar and reading to. I might be able to change them to another day if I can get ahold of them, but they don’t have a phone and—”

  Ellen watched a couple snuggling on a bench across from hers, and felt a knot in her chest.

  “No, no. Please don’t change your plans,” she managed. “I’ll be fine. I’ll fly in and back, and drive out to the cabin late tonight or first thing in the morning.”

  “You’re right,” Rudy said. “You will do fine. Who’s the woman? Where does she live?”

  “She lives in Evanston. Her name’s Serwanga. Nattie Serwanga.”

  CHAPTER 24

  THE MASSIVE KILLER MOVED ACROSS THE FLOOR with surprising stealth and closed in on Nikki as she slept. Her eyes opened a slit, but it was too late. Before she could make a sound, his huge, fleshy palm clamped over her mouth. His knee ground into the small of her back, increasing pressure on her spine until she knew it was going to crack in two.