The Seventh Plague

by James Rollins

  Hartnell’s gaze settled back to Painter. “Like Nikola, I see power plants around the world, even homes, with towers similar to the one outside, capable of tapping into the battery. Like a million Tesla coils hooked to the sky.”

  This scheme was beyond grand.

  “Just think of it. No more burning fossil fuels, no more tearing apart the earth for resources, no more pouring carbon dioxide into the air. And there’s an added bonus.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The crimson hue of the microbe would act as a natural sunscreen. A very mild one, but enough to push us back from the brink of turning this planet into a burnt cinder.”

  Painter appreciated his vision, but he could also think of a thousand variables that could turn this project into an unmitigated disaster—especially with regards to one glaringly obvious problem.

  “But this organism is deadly . . . extinction-level-event deadly.”

  Simon sighed. “That’s why we need the cure. I’m ready to perform a localized test in a couple of days. The conditions are perfect with the current geomagnetic storm, which is coursing the ionosphere with energy, the perfect soil in which to plant my seeds.”

  “But you don’t have the cure.”

  “I could if you’d get your partner to cooperate. To return what they stole. I believe Dr. al-Maaz and Rory were close to a breakthrough, something that could help us discover the reins to control this unruly beast.”

  Painter now understood why Hartnell was being so forthcoming. “And if I don’t help?”

  Hartnell shrugged. “I’ll still conduct the test.”

  Painter stiffened, the cuffs digging into his wrists. “What? Are you mad?”

  “Not at all. I’m confident it would be harmless. Tesla has already supplied us with a failsafe. I could simply overcharge the ionosphere with the array, sterilizing what’s up there, and achieve the same result.”

  Painter remembered the Francis Bacon quote he had read.

  Cure the disease, kill the patient.

  If not careful, this madman could do the same—only on a global level.

  “But, of course, I’d prefer not to do that,” Hartnell said, narrowing his eyes on Painter. “Especially if you help me find your friends.”

  6:50 A.M.

  Exhausted, Kat let the Sno-Cat trundle down the next pass on its own, barely holding the wheel. Gusts pushed the vehicle from behind, as if encouraging them to get into the shelter of the next valley. Dark clouds roofed the world, brushing the ice-capped mountains on all sides.

  Even in the eternal twilight of the storm, the view ahead was breathtaking.

  The huge valley stretched in either direction, its ends lost in the mists. Directly below, a long, thin lake filled the basin. It was still frozen over, but some edges flashed a brilliant blue, indicative of the first signs of a summer thaw. Deeper into the lake, large black islands rose from the white ice.

  “Lake Hazen,” Kat mumbled.

  Safia stirred, raising her head from where it had been leaning on the window.

  Kat pointed below, hoping she had memorized the island map correctly on the flight here. “If that’s Lake Hazen, we should be halfway to Alert.”

  “You don’t look even a quarter alert,” Safia teased. “Maybe we should take a rest. There’s been no other sign of anyone on our tail for the past two hours.”

  After the ghostly passage of the caribou herd, Kat had sent their Sno-Cat into a region of barren rock to better hide their tracks, avoiding snow and ice. She didn’t know if she had lost her pursuers or if they had even been there at all.

  “Maybe you’re right. If nothing else, I need to stretch my legs.”

  “Me, too,” Rory said from the backseat.

  Not likely, buddy.

  Kat aimed for the nearest blue spot, where a thin river trickled into the lake. They could use more water. Safia had finished the last bottle from the emergency pack found in the back.

  “Look at all the flowers,” Safia said dreamily.

  To either side of the Cat, the slopes were covered in purple saxifrage and arctic poppies. Even the rocks and boulders supported moss and yellow lichen.

  Kat took heart at the signs of life. She guided the vehicle down and parked at the shale-encrusted bank of the lake. “I’ll fill up our water bottles.”

  “What about Rory?” Safia asked.

  “He stays put.”

  Upon hearing this, Rory slumped in his seat.

  Kat gathered the empty bottles and cracked her door. The wind came close to tearing it out of her grip. The cold woke her up immediately, but she didn’t mind. The air was crisp, smelling of ice. She hurried to the lake and topped off the bottles. In just a few seconds of touching that water, her fingers went numb from the cold.

  She gathered the bottles and hunkered back against the wind. She had not had time to grab parkas during their hurried escape.

  Okay, that’s about all the fresh air I can take.

  She climbed into the heated cab of the Cat and slammed the door.

  Safia was turned in her seat, talking to Rory. “What happened after you and your father reached that tomb in the desert?”

  Rory shook his head. “My father wanted to go in first. You know how he could be. He left me outside with two of the survey crew. The rest went in with him.”

  Rory glanced away, as if the memory was painful. “One of the crew hit a booby trap or mishandled something. I never got a good answer. All I heard was a bunch of yelling. I tried to go in, but my father warned me to stay away. Those inside were all contaminated in the enclosed space. From the records of what happened at the British Museum, my father knew the danger, knew the safest thing was for everyone afflicted to remain below.”

  “What did you do?”

  He made a scoffing noise. “I panicked. I called Simon Hartnell.”

  Kat had already heard part of the story on the ride over, learning how Hartnell had been secretly funding and guiding Rory, who in turn manipulated his father.

  “Simon sent over a medical team,” Rory explained. “They buttoned everything up. There was some debate about trying to move the group to a hospital, but without knowing how communicable it was, it was decided to care for the men on-site.”

  “Was that Hartnell’s decision?” Kat asked, figuring the man would do anything to keep his secret.

  Rory turned to her. “No, it was my father’s.” He gave a tired shake of his head. “But I think his decision was based on a desire to remain at the site, to be the first to explore everything. I don’t think he was concerned about the possible spread of the disease. I mean, look what he did in the end.”

  “So your father survived his initial exposure.”

  “Out of pure stubbornness more than anything. Two others also lived. But five men died.”

  “And after that?” Safia asked.

  “Everything got locked down. I was flown here to work on the project.”

  Kat nodded to his missing finger. “And to ensure your father cooperated.”

  Rory stared at his hand and shrugged. “I accidentally shattered my finger after I got here. It had to be amputated anyway.”

  Kat could only imagine how horrified Professor McCabe must have been when they delivered his son’s severed finger.

  “My father worked the next twenty months searching for the cure. He discovered not only the tattooed mummy, but a whole batch of others. He tested all their tissues, everything in that damned place, trying to find the answer.”

  “But nothing worked?” Safia said.

  “I think he must have gone a little mad in the end. Even tried to go through the ritual of self-mummification, to follow in the ancients’ footsteps.” Rory snorted. “Then he simply escaped. He waited until there was a rotation of researchers, when only two scientists and two guards were on the premises. He broke into a weapons locker and stole a rifle.”

  “He killed them all?”

  “Only the guards. He tied up the researchers, then
fled.” Rory stared out at the frozen lake. “I don’t understand . . . so many have died because of him.”

  Kat felt no need to console Rory, but she did anyway. “I don’t think he meant to. We believe that act of mummification made him noncontagious. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a cure. He still died from the pathogen, but I think he was trying to reach civilization, to warn about what was going on.”

  Rory turned back, his eyes welling with tears. “But he didn’t have to do that. I didn’t want him to die.”

  Safia leaned back to the boy, resting her fingers on his knee.

  Kat did not share her sympathy.

  You made this bed.

  “What about afterward?” Kat asked. “Why would Hartnell want to destroy all of your father’s work and go after your sister?”

  “With all the renewed attention following my father’s reappearance, Simon feared someone might discover the clues found in my dad’s early papers and try to follow those bread crumbs to that location.”

  Kat frowned. “So he began cleaning house.”

  “Both in London and at the tomb. He removed everything of importance out in the desert, including the enthroned mummy. My father was sure she was vital to the cure.”

  And now she’s gone, with only a ghostly digital record left.

  Kat glanced at Safia’s pocket.

  “What about Jane?” Safia asked.

  “Before my father fled, he left a strange sign, addressed to Jane. Simon believed my sister might find some meaning or significance in it. He hoped it might offer some new clue to the cure, something my father discerned near the end but never shared.” Rory looked down. “Personally I think he was just saying good-bye.”

  Rory turned away, clearly done talking.

  Safia shared a worried glance with Kat, then reached for a water bottle. Her arm visibly trembled.

  “Safia . . . ?”

  Kat noted how shiny the woman’s face had become. She placed a hand on Safia’s cheek, discovering the smoldering heat there.

  “You’re burning up.”

  6:58 A.M.

  After Painter Crowe had been escorted out of the library, Simon sat quietly for several minutes at his desk. He had given Painter an hour to make up his mind about cooperating—then sterner measures would have to be taken if necessary.

  Which might not be the case.

  He had heard from Anton twenty minutes ago. Communication with his search team was spotty due to the geomagnetic storm. The only radio that worked was line-of-sight. Anton could only reach Aurora Station from the tops of the mountains, where he could send a direct microwave signal to the base.

  The last report was that his team had picked up the Sno-Cat’s trail again.

  As Simon sat, he took this into account, his mind running various scenarios and projections through his head. He finally came to a decision and grabbed the phone. He tapped an extension and the project leader—Dr. Sunil Kapoor—promptly picked up. The physicist was likely troubleshooting all systems prior to the test firing of the array in two days.

  “Sir?” Kapoor answered, knowing who was calling.

  “Change of plans.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Simon had weighed the variable concerning the two missing women and decided the risk was too significant to leave to chance—or even to Anton’s skill. If the pair should reach help, everything could be shut down before it was even started.

  I can’t let that happen . . . not when I’m this close.

  What was planned was an important proof-of-concept test. Even if those women succeeded, he wanted confirmation his system worked before facing any consequences.

  The project here was too important, far larger than any one man.

  Even myself.

  “We’re moving up the schedule,” he told Kapoor.

  “To when, sir?”

  “To today.”

  21

  June 3, 2:02 P.M. EAT

  Khartoum, Sudan

  Gray stood naked under a cold shower.

  Sand swirled at his toes. Every muscle ached. He had already scrubbed his body with soap and hot water, and still more stubborn grains rinsed from cracks, crevices, and patches of hair. He was last to shower, so he took his time—to collect himself, to gather his thoughts. The white noise of the spray and the cold helped him focus.

  Three hours ago, he had been hiking with Derek and Kowalski, following the trail left by Seichan’s bike, when in the distance a great wall of dust climbed into the burning sky. Vehicles swept down on them, with the Unimog in the middle, flanked by a flock of motorcycles. Behind them came a clutch of camels driven hard by their riders to keep up.

  Kowalski had noted their approach. “That’s the most sorry-assed-looking cavalry I’ve ever seen.”

  After rejoining the others, they headed straight to Khartoum, using trails known to the nomads. Gray took the wheel of the Unimog, much to the disappointment of Ahmad, who needed to head back to Rufaa to return to his family. The boy was somewhat mollified after Seichan bought his bike—which had seen some rough last miles—for a price that was clearly exorbitant. Happy again, the boy and his dog headed back to his village in the sidecar of his cousin’s cycle.

  Seichan remained on the bike for the return trek, circling wide, watching the skies for any sign of a drone and the surrounding desert for any sign of pursuit.

  They had safely reached Khartoum and settled into a cheap hotel at the edge of town.

  After all that had befallen them, the team seemed to be back where they’d started, and no closer to discovering how to stop the pandemic. When Gray had headed to the shower, he had left Derek and Jane sitting at a table with their heads bent together, comparing notes. Their faces had not looked hopeful.

  The door to the bathroom opened. Through the translucent shower curtain, a figure could be seen entering, shedding clothes with every step. Seichan pushed through and climbed in with him. Her only reaction to the cold was to push against him, sliding an arm around his waist. He pulled her closer, sheltering her body with his own.

  He reached back to turn the valve to hot.

  “Don’t,” she whispered into his chest.

  He dropped his arm and held her. It was rare for her to be this tender, this vulnerable. He couldn’t say he didn’t like it. He stayed silent, knowing that’s also what she wanted. Now was not the time for long conversations or heartfelt talks about their future. There was only now, this moment.

  I’ll take it.

  He clung to her, their skins warming where they touched, cold where not. He felt himself stirring. A moment later they were kissing. But that was as far as matters progressed before there was a knock on the door. They broke apart. Cold water rushed between them, shattering the moment, pushing them farther apart.

  “Gray!” It was Kowalski.

  He closed his eyes. “I’m going to kill him.”

  “Get in line,” Seichan growled.

  “Monk’s on the phone! Hurry it up in there.”

  Gray pulled back the curtain, stepping away, but turned back to her. He remembered an earlier offer of hers to run away and leave all of this behind them. “Tell me you found another fire escape here.”

  “A fire escape?” She reached to the top of the curtain, revealing the full breadth of her body. “You had your chance before. We’re too in the thick of it now. But ask me again later, and who knows?”

  She pulled the curtain, leaving the possibility hanging.

  As he buffed his body dry, steam rose from the stall, fogging the curtain, but never fully enough to erase the shape luxuriating in the hot water.

  He pulled on his dusty clothes.

  Definitely murdering the guy.

  As he stalked out to the bedroom, he saw Kowalski had left his satellite phone on the nightstand. He picked it up.

  “Monk?”

  “How’re things in the desert?”

  He looked at the closed bathroom door. “Hot. How about in Cairo?”

  “Does
this answer your question?” A faint spate of gunfire grew louder over the line. “NAMRU is under siege. Some nutcase decided the plague is all an American plot and that the base here is to blame.”

  “So just another day.”

  “Pretty much. So if you’ve made any headway toward a cure, I’d love to hear about it.”

  “ ’Fraid not. We’re still at the knocking-our-heads-together stage.”

  A loud blast echoed over the line. “Then knock a little harder.”

  “We’ll do our best.” Gray dropped his voice. “But, Monk, are you okay out there?”

  “For now. We’ve got both American and Egyptian forces holding down the fort. But we can use some good news.”

  “Understood. Watch your back.”

  “Back atcha, my friend.”

  They signed off.

  Gray headed to the others, more determined than ever now, but noted a text message waiting for him. He sighed at the number and pulled up the note:

  DAD TOOK A TURN FOR THE WORSE. STABLE AGAIN.

  CALL WHEN YOU CAN. NOT AN EMERGENCY, BUT YOU KNOW.

  Groaning, he called his brother’s cell.

  Where is that fire escape when you need it?

  The phone rang and rang, then finally went to voicemail. He waited for the beep, then said, “Kenny, I got your message. Call back or text. Let me know what’s going on and if there’s anything I can do at my end.”

  He hung up the phone, frustrated at not being able to reach him—but also partly relieved. It allowed him to put off the inevitable a little longer. He closed his eyes, feeling guilty for the last part, then shook his head.

  One problem at a time.

  It was becoming his mantra.

  He crossed to the next room. Derek and Jane looked up as he entered. “Any progress?” he asked.

  Jane winced, her expression unsure. “Maybe . . . but it makes no sense.”

  2:24 P.M.

  And it didn’t . . .

  Jane bit her lip, staring at the spread of paper, at Derek working on his iPad. Her father had left her a cryptic message, dying to deliver it, clearly believing she would readily understand it. To even struggle with the mystery made her feel inadequate, even undeserving of his love.

  “Show me,” Gray said. “Talk it out.”