by Hank Parker
He unzipped the plastic bag and then carefully unscrewed the cap of the water bottle and placed it on the floor. He inserted the spray nozzle tube into the liquid, tightly screwed down the nozzle cap, and adjusted the nozzle setting to release a thin jet of liquid. When the liquid hit the air outside, it would disperse into millions of tiny droplets, each packed with virus particles. The nozzle was narrow enough to fit snugly into the plastic tube secured in the door opening. He began to conjure up images of television newscasters staring boldly into their cameras and telling their viewers that this attack had made September 11, 2001, look like a walk in the park, then forced the reverie out of his mind. He couldn’t allow himself to be distracted—not even for a second.
He lifted the bottle to make the insertion. Here we go, he told himself. First the bottle contents, distributed over the city in a nice aerosolized mist. Next he’d quickly launch his soldiers through the plastic tube. It would take days before the first results showed. Then it would be too late to stop the rapidly spreading epidemic. He carefully fit the nozzle of the bottle into the plastic tubing and moved his thumb toward the plunger.
“What do you think you’re doing!”
The interruption was so unexpected that Vector nearly dropped the bottle. He turned slowly to face a large, angry-looking woman with her hands on her hips. Could he bluff his way out of this? he asked himself. What difference did it make? He was going to die with the rest of them anyway. The act of securing the nozzle into the plastic bottle had probably already released some virus. He turned back toward the door.
A body slammed against him and toppled him to the floor. The bottle fell out of his hand and rolled away. The woman who’d questioned him was on top of him, calling out to the other passengers. Several more joined in. Using belts and shoelaces, they soon had Vector thoroughly restrained. By this time he was bleeding from his nose, had a bad cut on his chin, and had broken into a coughing fit. A young woman called 999—Britain’s emergency number—on her cell phone. Consulting with the other passengers, she reported that they’d restrained a passenger on the Eye who’d tried to spray something over the city. They suspected a toxic substance. A gray-haired man gingerly picked up the spray bottle. Using a handkerchief to avoid direct contact, he dropped the bottle and handkerchief into Vector’s plastic bag, and zipped it shut. Another man, wearing a “Britannia Rules” T-shirt, did his best to calm the other passengers until the Eye could complete its rotation to the ground.
* * *
The next day, Richard Blumenthal of CDC, and now acting director of the Barn, addressed Curt and Mariah at a small table in Hoffman’s old office. “We’re sure glad you two are all right,” he said. “The country owes you an immense debt of gratitude.”
Mariah saw Curt nod in acknowledgment, but she couldn’t bring herself to do the same. She was tired, more tired than she’d ever been. And she was relieved. But all she could muster at this point was what she hoped seemed like composure. She’d sat close enough to Curt to be able to feel his warmth radiating through his shirt, and she had to will herself not to lean into him.
“London sure dodged a bullet,” Blumenthal was saying. “Thanks to the passengers in the Eye. They stopped the release just in time, but some of the virus got out inside the capsule. Seven tourists are pretty sick.”
“And Hoffman?” asked Mariah.
“Ah, yes. The notorious Doctor Vector. Close to death,” said Blumenthal. “Kandahar. Seems that he already had it. He was treating himself with ribavirin, but just to delay the inevitable.”
“He was already in bad shape when he showed up in the Philippines,” said Mariah. “All the symptoms of Kandahar. He obviously had nothing to lose at that point. Basically he was a suicide bomber.”
“One way to put it,” said Blumenthal. “I have to admit, the guy had me totally fooled. I figured him for a super-patriot.”
“It’s not like anyone really knew him well,” said Curt.
For several seconds, no one spoke. Then Blumenthal said, “Oh, there was something else.”
Mariah and Curt looked questioningly at Blumenthal.
“He was carrying a plastic container. A large pillbox. Two layers. You’ve probably seen these things. They have partitions to arrange the pills by date. The top was holding a couple of pills. Ribavirin. Vector must have had just enough supply to last through 9/11.”
“The bottom part?” asked Curt.
“That’s where it gets interesting,” said Blumenthal. “Ticks. A thousand or so in ten little capsules with perforated tops. All gravid females.”
“My God,” said Mariah. “He must have been planning to release those as well. He did talk about a backup plan in the hut. Plan B, I think he called it.”
“You’ve got to hand it to him,” said Blumenthal. “Pretty ingenious. We’re assuming the ticks were infected with Kandahar. Fort Detrick’s checking now.”
Curt shook his head. “Hoffman must have had some entomology training. Renaissance man meets evil genius. Who knew?”
It all made sense, thought Mariah. Hoffman hadn’t been totally relying on an aerosol release. He would have known that the virus might have been deactivated or weakened during its long journey from the Philippines to London. Or by atmospheric conditions after release from the Eye. She silently breathed a sigh of relief. It had been really close. Too close. After all that had been done to prevent the release, after all she and Curt had gone through, it had still almost happened. She shuddered inwardly, imagining what the consequences would have been if Hoffman had succeeded in London. She remembered her speculation about his intent and motive, to maybe release the virus in a Western city so that would trigger a massive U.S. response against the Islamic world. If the London attack had been successful, would the powers that be have listened to her, have paid any attention to her theory, and the logic and evidence behind it? And if they hadn’t put stock in what she was telling them, would they have launched an immediate retaliatory strike of some kind? Against Pakistan or another Muslim nation? She liked to think they’d be more circumspect, spend time with the intelligence, carefully consider a range of options before acting. But she’d never know. She shifted her thoughts back to the States. “I understand we’ve got the outbreak under control here,” she said.
“Looks like it,” said Blumenthal. “We’ve contained the virus. No new cases since September ninth. Best guess is they’ll lift the quarantine in the next couple of days.”
“What about martial law?” asked Curt.
“No longer in effect.”
“So,” Mariah said hesitantly. “How bad did it get?”
“Pretty bad—but it could have been a lot worse. Over five thousand human cases and nearly four thousand deaths. Fortunately, no cases outside the final quarantine area, which encompassed a thirty-mile radius from Middle Valley. They had to destroy over a hundred thousand livestock animals and several thousand pets. And pretty much eliminate the wildlife in the quarantine zone.”
Mariah shook her head. “How did the people handle it?”
“Once they understood the magnitude of the problem, saw the rioting, experienced the deaths of so many relatives and friends, most of them accepted the containment program and martial law,” said Blumenthal. “The state and the feds are working on a compensation plan. But, as you might imagine, there’s a lot of distrust of the authorities right now. And a bunch of lawsuits in the works. At one point, I was worried about a possible collapse of the government. But, if anything, federal authority seems to have gotten stronger. They’re even talking about further restrictions on individual liberties. In the name of security, of course.” Blumenthal looked back and forth between Curt and Mariah. “Seems we do have one thing to thank Hoffman for. It turns out he was very close to completing a vaccine for Kandahar. We found a prototype in his lab in the Barn, along with manufacturing details. We were able to take it to the final stage and mak
e enough to inoculate most of the human population in the mid-Atlantic corridor. Of course FDA will first have to assure safety and efficacy. But we’re doing all we can to fast-track the process.”
“We’re assuming that the virus strain hasn’t mutated,” said Mariah.
“That’s right,” said Blumenthal. “If it has mutated, the current vaccine may not be effective. But we think that’s unlikely. Not enough time. And with the quarantine, animal culling, and tick eradication, we’re pretty confident we wiped out the virus in Pennsylvania.”
Curt and Mariah sat numbly. Mariah wondered if Curt was as exhausted as she was.
“Still a lot of unanswered questions,” said Blumenthal when it was clear the other two had nothing else to way. “You’ll take some time off now? You guys have sure earned it.”
Curt nodded.
“Want to share where you’ll be heading?”
“Someplace quiet,” Curt said.
Mariah smiled.
* * *
That afternoon, a windowless cargo van sped down Route 95 just south of the Delaware-Maryland border. The van’s driver hunched over the wheel, his teeth clenched tightly, his eyes focused on the road ahead. He’d been caught in traffic leaving Philadelphia and was running late. Doctor Vector had made his instructions clear back on September 1. The van’s cargo, a large cooler, would be delivered today, September 12, in the nation’s capital. Tens of thousands of demonstrators were massing on the Mall to protest what they believed was a slow response by the federal government to combat the spread of the Kandahar virus. For maximum effect, he needed to be at the Mall while the demonstration was still going on.
The driver rehearsed the plan in his mind as he sped down the interstate. He’d park the van as close to the Mall as possible, illegally if necessary, since the license plates were stolen and the authorities could never track the vehicle back to him. Not that it really mattered. He was prepared to give his life for the cause. He’d carry the cooler and a blanket to a grassy area near the demonstration. He’d be just another picnicker, lounging on the mall, watching the show. But the cooler didn’t hold sandwiches and drinks. It contained ticks, thousands of them, in two dozen small plastic canisters. All he had to do was to uncap the canisters and release the insects. It would only take a couple of minutes. Doctor Vector had cryptically referred to this operation as Plan B. The driver hadn’t asked questions other than to confirm the instructions. He knew better.
Minutes later, south of Elkton, Maryland, the driver saw a police cruiser parked by the side of the road. He hit the brakes. Too late. As he passed the cruiser he saw it pull out, blue lights flashing. He couldn’t pull over. He was undocumented, didn’t even have a driver’s license. The cop would almost certainly search the van and find the cargo in the back end. He couldn’t take that risk.
He pressed down on the accelerator. He could see the Susquehanna River bridge, just ahead. If he could put some distance between himself and the cop car, maybe he could make it across the bridge and take the Havre de Grace exit on the other side without being seen.
Halfway across the bridge, the van driver could see that the flashing blue lights were closing. He pressed the accelerator to the floor. Damn! A car just ahead, moving too slowly in the passing lane. He jerked the wheel to pass the car on the right, steered too close to the Jersey barrier at the edge of the bridge, and overcorrected. The van went into a skid. The driver took his foot off the accelerator, felt the vehicle begin to spin, and mouthed a silent prayer to Allah.
The rear end of the van slammed into the Jersey barrier, dislodging a large section of concrete. The van swayed unsteadily in the gap. The back end had torn open, and both rear wheels hung over the edge of the bridge. Then, with a slow screech of metal, the van began to slide. In slow motion, it toppled over and fell toward the water below. It landed upside down and began to float downstream toward Chesapeake Bay.
* * *
Tony Parnell cuddled next to his wife on the couch of their two-bedroom Philadelphia apartment and softly stroked her hair. Bobby was still sleeping, a good sign, because they’d been worried about nightmares. But seven-year-olds were pretty resilient, they’d assured each other, and with luck there’d be no lasting effects from the ordeal.
He wasn’t so sure about Sally. She’d held it together pretty well so far, but the adrenaline would soon wear off. Based on her account of what had happened, she could be in for a rough stretch, psychologically. All in a rush, she’d told him about the noises in the night, the defenses, putting Bobby in the safe room, the attempt to break into the house, the face in the window. She’d stopped then, choked back a sob, squared her shoulders, and continued.
When she’d seen the face, she’d screamed and, without thinking, rushed to the window, swinging a baseball bat, smashing through the glass. She’d caught the guy square on the side of his head, watched him fall slowly backward, still clutching the extension ladder he’d climbed up on. The motion lights weren’t working at that point—she’d figured the intruders had disabled them—but there was enough early dawn light for her to see the ground below. The guy on his back, pinned under the ladder. And three more men standing over him.
The men had then repositioned the ladder. One started climbing while the other two held the ladder firmly against the side of the house. The climber was moving awkwardly, leaning against the ladder as he slowly ascended, step-by-step. He was gripping the rungs with only one hand. She soon saw why. The other hand held a pistol.
There’d been a yell, behind her. She’d turned and seen Fredi standing there, shouting at her to get away from the window.
Then she’d heard the sound of sirens.
Parnell knew that he’d been responsible for the sirens. Before the cell-phone connection had broken that night, he’d heard Sally say that someone was trying to break in. He’d called 911, reported the intrusion, and given them the address and detailed directions. Obviously they’d arrived in the nick of time.
Afterward, when she was sure it was safe again, Sally had rushed to the safe room and given the secret knock. Several times. She was starting to panic all over again when the door finally opened. Bobby had slept through the whole thing.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
SEPTEMBER 16
ST. JOHN, U.S. VIRGIN ISLANDS
At last, Mariah sat on the white sand beach, facing east as the sun began to rise over the Caribbean Sea. She first saw a smear of pinks and yellows and oranges above the long black band of the horizon. Then, as the dark layers of night peeled steadily back, creeping tendrils of blue began to stain the sky.
The ocean soon came into view, still smooth and glassy in the early morning. It first reflected the colors of the sky. But as the rising sun illuminated the sea the water took on an emerald hue, dark green in the distance, translucent up close. To Mariah, the ocean seemed to go on forever. She was learning that in the tropics, when the day is young and the weather is calm, the sea can seem as immense as the sky.
Sky and sea, blue and green. With the sun angling into the sky, Mariah could make out dark forms below the water’s surface. Some were mounded and motionless, probably coral heads or algae-covered rocks. Others were large and moving. Mariah saw a dark-backed eagle ray flash white as it twisted after prey. Brightly colored reef fish shot through the water like bursts of rainbow shrapnel.
She rose and padded back to the snug, seaside bungalow that she and Curt had rented for the week. Curt was just inside, already in his bathing suit, a towel slung over his shoulder, kneeling and rummaging through his duffel bag.
She stepped around him as he pulled a mask and snorkel from the bag. “Hey,” she said, curling one foot beneath her and sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Hmm?” Curt said absently.
“I need to ask you something. I’ve been putting it off, but I can’t wait anymore.”
Now Curt stood up and look
ed at her, puzzled.
“When did you first figure out that Angus was your son?”
Curt took a deep breath. “Back when I first met him in Hawaii.”
“Was it his eyes? Like yours?”
“Partly. But also his facial features.”
“The strong jaw, right?”
“And something he got from his mother. The dark, curly hair.”
Mariah nodded slowly, taking this in.
“So you suspected it too?” Curt asked.
Mariah nodded again. “When I saw his eyes. Like yours, even though his hair is dark. But I kind of dismissed it, wondered if it was just more common than I’d thought. And then there was his behavior at the hotel in Manila.”
“He did seem kind of uptight,” said Curt.
“More like disappointed,” said Mariah. “Seemed to resent that I was there. Like he wanted to have some time alone with you. Then, when he disappeared, you seemed so devastated. More than I would have expected if it was just a professional colleague. I began to put two and two together.” She looked searchingly at Curt. “So what will you do now?” she asked.
Curt returned Mariah’s gaze. He paused for several seconds before answering. “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure,” he finally said. “I only know that it will involve Angus . . . and you.”
EPILOGUE
SEPTEMBER 18
VIRGINIA BEACH, VIRGINIA
Two boys strolled along an empty beach, pant legs rolled up, shoes in their hands, splashing through the small waves that curled along the edge of the shore. One of the boys, a gangly kid of about twelve with a mop of curly red hair, bent over, picked something up at the water’s edge, and cradled it in his hand. “Know what this is?” he asked his younger and shorter companion.
