With an impatient shake of her head, she turned on her computer to examine the lab notes for anything she might have missed. She found nothing of any significance.
Then, as more DNA sequence data was arriving, and she continued to review in her mind all the clinical data so far on the virus, she had a strange feeling.
She had seen this virus—or one that was incredibly similar—somewhere.
She wracked her brain. Dug through her memory. Rooted through her past.
Nothing came to mind. Finally she read one of her team members’ reports that suggested the new virus might be related to Machupo, one of the first discovered hemorrhagic fevers, again by Karl Johnson.
Africa pushed none of her buttons. But Bolivia … ?
Peru!
Her student anthropology field trip, and—
Victor Tremont.
Yes, that had been his name. A biologist on a field trip to Peru to collect plants and dirts for potential medicinals for … what company? A pharmaceutical firm … Blanchard Pharmaceuticals!
She turned back to her computer, quickly entered the Internet, and searched for Blanchard. She found it almost at once—in Long Lake, New York. And Victor Tremont was president and Chief Operating Officer now. She reached for her phone and dialed the number.
It was Sunday morning, but giant corporations sometimes kept their telephones open all weekend for important calls. Blanchard did. A human voice answered, and when Sophia asked for Victor Tremont, the voice told her to wait. She drummed her fingers on the desk, trying to control her worried impatience.
At last a series of clicks and silences on the far end of the line were interrupted by another human voice. This time it was neutral, toneless: “May I ask your name and business with Dr. Tremont?”
“Sophia Russell. Tell him it’s about a trip to Peru where we met.”
“Please hold.” More silence. Then: “Mr. Tremont will speak with you now.
“Ms … . Russell?” Obviously he was consulting the name handed to him on a pad. “What can I do for you?” His voice was low and pleasant but commanding. A man clearly accustomed to being in charge.
She said mildly, “Actually, it’s Dr. Russell now. You don’t remember my name, Dr. Tremont?”
“Can’t say I do. But you mentioned Peru, and I do remember Peru. Twelve or thirteen years ago, wasn’t it?” He was acknowledging why he was talking to her, but giving nothing away in case she was a job seeker or it was all some hoax.
“Thirteen, and I certainly remember you.” She was trying to keep it light. “What I’m interested in is that time on the Caraibo River. I was with a group of anthropology undergrads on a field trip from Syracuse while you were collecting potential medicinal materials. I’m calling to ask about the virus you found in those remote tribesmen, the natives the others called the Monkey Blood People.”
In his large corner office at the other end of the line, Victor Tremont felt a jolt of fear. Just as quickly, he repressed it. He swiveled in his desk chair to stare out at the lake, which was shimmering like mercury in the early-morning light. On the far side, a thick pine forest stretched and climbed to the high mountains in the distance.
Annoyed that she had surprised him with such a potentially devastating memory, Tremont continued to swivel. He kept his voice friendly. “Now I remember you. The eager blond young lady dazzled by science. I wondered whether you’d go on to become an anthropologist. Did you?”
“No, I ended up with a doctorate in cell and molecular biology. That’s why I need your help. I’m working at the army’s infectious diseases research center at Fort Detrick. We’ve come across a virus that sounds a lot like the one in Peru—an unknown type causing headaches, fever, and acute respiratory distress syndrome that can kill otherwise healthy people within hours and produce a violent hemorrhage in the lungs. Does that ring a bell, Dr. Tremont?”
“Call me Victor, and I seem to recall your first name is Susan … Sally … something like … ?”
“Sophia.”
“Of course. Sophia Russell. Fort Detrick,” he said, as if writing it down. “I’m glad to hear you remained in science. Sometimes I wish I’d stayed in the lab instead of jumping to the front office. But that’s water over a long-ago dam, eh?” He laughed.
She asked, “Do you recall the virus?”
“No. Can’t say I do. I went into sales and management soon after Peru, and probably that’s why the incident escapes me. As I said, it was a long time ago. But from what I recall of my molecular biology, the scenario you suggest is unlikely. You must be thinking of a series of different viruses we heard about on that trip. There was no shortage. I remember that much.”
She dug the phone into her ear, frustrated. “No, I’m certain there was this one single agent that came from working with the Monkey Blood People. I didn’t pay a lot of attention at the time. But then, I never expected to end up in biology, much less cell and molecular. Still, the oddness of it stuck with me.”
“‘The Monkey Blood People’? How bizarre. I’m sure I’d recall a tribe with such a colorful name as that.”
Urgency filled her voice. “Dr. Tremont, listen. Please. This is vital. Critical. We’ve just received three cases of a virus that reminds me of the one in Peru. Those natives had a cure that worked almost eighty percent of the time—drinking the blood of a certain monkey. As I recall, that’s what astonished you.”
“And still would,” Tremont agreed. The accuracy of her memory was unnerving. “Primitive Indians with a cure for a fatal virus? But I know nothing about it,” he lied smoothly. “The way you describe what happened, I’m certain I’d remember. What do your colleagues say? Surely some worked in Peru, too.”
She sighed. “I wanted to check with you first. We have enough false alarms, and it’s been a long time since Peru for me, too. But if you don’t remember …” Her voice trailed off. She was terribly disappointed. “I’m certain there was a virus. Perhaps I’ll contact Peru. They must have a record of unusual cures among the Indians.”
Victor Tremont’s voice rose slightly. “That may not be necessary. I kept a journal of my trips back then. Notes on the plants and potential pharmaceuticals. Perhaps I jotted down something about your virus as well.”
Sophia leaped at the suggestion. “I’d appreciate your looking. Right away.”
“Whoa.” Tremont gave a warm chuckle. He had her. “The notebooks are stored somewhere in my house. Probably the attic. Maybe the basement. I’ll have to get back to you tomorrow.”
“I owe you, Victor. Maybe the world will. First thing tomorrow, please. You have no idea how important this could be.” She gave him her phone number.
“Oh, I think I know,” Tremont assured her. “Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
He hung up and rotated once more to gaze out at the brightening lake and the high mountains that suddenly seemed to loom close and ominous. He stood up and walked to the window. He was a tall man of medium build, with a distinctive face on which nature had played one of her more kindly tricks: From a youth’s oversized nose, gawky ears, and thin cheeks, he had grown into a good-looking man. He was now in his fifties, and his features had filled out. His face was aquiline, smooth, and aristocratic. The nose was the perfect size—straight and strong, a fitting centerpiece for his very English face. With his tan skin and thick, iron-gray hair, he drew attention wherever he went. But he knew it was not his dignity and attractiveness that people found so appealing. It was his self-confidence. He radiated power, and lessassured people found that compelling.
Despite what he had told Sophia Russell, Victor Tremont made no move to go home to his secluded estate. Instead, he stared unseeing at the mountains and fought off tension. He was angry … and annoyed.
Sophia Russell. My God, Sophia Russell!
Who would have thought? He had not even recognized her name initially. In fact, still did not remember any of the names of that insignificant little student group. And he doubted any would recall his. But Russe
ll had. What kind of brain retained such detail? Obviously the trivial was too important to her. He shook his head, disgusted. In truth, she was not a problem. Just a nuisance. Still, she must be dealt with. He unlocked the secret drawer in his carved desk, took out a cell phone, and dialed.
An emotionless voice with a faint accent answered. “Yes?”
“I need to talk to you,” Victor Tremont ordered. “My office. Ten minutes.” He hung up, returned the cell phone to the locked drawer, and picked up his regular office phone. “Muriel? Get me General Caspar in Washington.”
Chapter Three
9:14 A.M., Monday, October 13
Fort Detrick, Maryland
As employees arrived at USAMRIID that Monday morning, word quickly spread through the campus’s buildings of the weekend’s fruitless search to identify and find a way to contain some new killer virus. The press still had not discovered the story, and the director’s office ordered everyone to maintain media silence. No one was to talk to a reporter, and only those working in the labs were kept in the loop about the agonizing quest.
Meanwhile, regular work still had to be done. There were forms to be filed, equipment to be maintained, phone calls to be answered. In the sergeant major’s office, Specialist Four Hideo Takeda was in his cubicle sorting mail when he opened an official-looking envelope emblazoned with the U.S. Department of Defense logo.
After he read and reread the letter, he leaned over the divider between his cubicle and that of Specialist Five Sandra Quinn, his fellow clerk. He confided in an excited whisper, “It’s my transfer to Okinawa.”
“You’re kidding.”
“We’d given up.” He grinned. His girlfriend, Miko, was stationed on Okinawa.
“Better tell the boss right away,” Sandra warned. “It means teaching a new clerk to deal with the goddamned absentminded professors we got here. She’ll be pissed. Man, they’re all out of their minds today anyway with this new crisis, aren’t they?”
“Screw her,” Specialist Takeda swore cheerfully.
“Not in my worst nightmare.” Sgt. Maj. Helen Daugherty stood in her office doorway. “Would you care to step in here, Specialist Takeda?” she said with exaggerated politeness. “Or would you prefer I beat you senseless first?”
An imposing six-foot blonde with the shoulders to offset all her whistle-producing curves, the sergeant major looked down with her best piranha smile at the five-foot-six Takeda. The clerk hurried out of his cubicle with a nervous show of fear not entirely faked. With Daugherty, as befitted any good sergeant major, you were never fully sure you were safe.
“Close the door, Takeda. And take a seat.”
The specialist did as instructed.
Daugherty fixed him with a gimlet eye. “How long have you known about the possibility of this transfer, Hideo?”
“It came out of the blue this morning. I mean, I just opened the letter.”
“And we put it in for you … what, almost two years ago?”
“Year and a half, at least. Right after I came back from leave over there. Look, Sergeant, if you need me to stick around awhile, I’ll be—”
Daugherty shook her head. “Doesn’t look like I could do that if I wanted to.” With her finger she stabbed a memo on her desk. “I got this E-mail from the Department of the Army about the same time you must’ve opened your letter. Looks like your replacement’s already on her way. Coming from Intelligence Command over in Kosovo, no less. She must’ve been on a plane before the letter even got to the office.” Daugherty’s expression was thoughtful.
“You mean she’ll be here today?”
Daugherty glanced at the clock on her desk. “A couple of hours, to be exact.”
“Wow, that’s fast.”
“Yes,” Daugherty agreed, “it sure is. They’ve even cut travel orders for you. You’ve got a day to clear out your desk and quarters. You’re to be on a plane tomorrow morning.”
“A day?”
“Better get at it. And best of luck, Hideo. I’ve enjoyed working with you. I’ll put a good report in your file.”
“Yessir, er, Sergeant. And thanks.”
Still a little stunned, Takeda left Sergeant Major Daugherty contemplating the memo. She was rolling a pencil between her hands and staring off into space as he enthusiastically dumped out his desk. He repressed a war whoop of victory. He was not only tired of being away from Miko, he was especially tired of living in the USAMRIID pressure cooker. He had been through plenty of emergencies here, but this new one had everyone worried. Even scared. He was glad to get the hell out.
Three hours later, Specialist Four Adele Schweik stood at attention in the same office in front of Sergeant Major Daugherty. She was a small brunette with almost black hair, a rigid carriage, and alert gray eyes. Her uniform was impeccable, with two rows of medal ribbons showing service overseas in many countries and campaigns. There was even a Bosnian ribbon.
“At ease, Specialist.”
Schweik stood at ease. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
Daugherty read her transfer papers and spoke without looking up. “Kind of fast, wasn’t it?”
“I asked to be transferred to the D.C. area a few months ago. Personal reasons. My colonel told me an opening had suddenly come up at Detrick, and I jumped at it.”
Daugherty looked up at her. “A little overqualified, aren’t you? This is a backwater post. A small command not doing much and never going overseas.”
“I only know it’s Detrick. I don’t know what your unit is.”
“Oh?” Daugherty raised a blond eyebrow. There was something too cool and composed about this Schweik. “Well, we’re USAMRIID: U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases. Scientific research. All our officers are doctors, vets, or medical specialists. We even have civilians. No weapons, no training, no glory.”
Schweik smiled. “That sounds peaceful, Sergeant Major. A nice change after Kosovo. Besides, haven’t I heard USAMRIID is on the cutting edge, working with pretty deadly Hot Zone diseases? Sounds like it could be exciting.”
The sergeant major cocked her head. “It is for the docs. But for us it’s just office routine. We keep the place running. Over the weekend there was some kind of emergency. Don’t ask any questions. It’s none of your business. And if any journalist contacts you, refer them to public affairs. That’s an order. Okay, there’s your cubicle next to Quinn’s. Introduce yourself. Get settled, and Quinn will bring you up to speed.”
Schweik came to attention. “Thank you, Sergeant Major.”
Daugherty rotated her pencil again, studying the door that had just closed behind the new woman. Then Daugherty sighed. She had not been completely truthful. Although there was plenty of routine, there were moments like this when all of a sudden the army didn’t make a damn bit of sense. She shrugged. Well, she had seen stranger things than an abrupt shift in personnel that made both transferring parties happy. She buzzed Quinn, asked for a cup of coffee, and put out of her mind the latest lab crisis and the strange personnel transfer. She had work to do.
At 1732 hours, Sergeant Major Daugherty locked her cubicle door, preparing to leave the empty office. But the office was not empty.
The new woman, Schweik, said, “I’d like to stay and learn as much as I can, if that’s all right, Sergeant Major.”
“Fine. I’ll tell security. You have an office key? Good. Lock up when you’re finished. You won’t be alone. That new virus is driving the docs crazy. I expect some of them will be on campus all night. If this goes on much longer, they’re going to start getting cantankerous. They don’t like mysteries that kill people.”
“So I’ve heard.” The small brunette nodded and smiled. “See, plenty of action and excitement at Fort Detrick.”
Daugherty laughed. “I stand corrected,” she said, and went out.
At her desk in the silent office, Specialist Schweik read memos and made notes for another half hour until she was sure neither the sergeant major nor security was coming b
ack to check on her. Then she opened the attaché case she had brought inside during her first coffee break. When she had arrived at Andrews Air Force Base this morning, it had been waiting in the car assigned to her.
From the case she withdrew a schematic diagram of the phone installations in the USAMRIID building. The main box was in the basement, and it contained connections for all the internal extensions and private outside lines. She studied it long enough to memorize its position. Then she returned the diagram, closed the case, and stepped into the corridor, carrying it.
With innocent curiosity on her face, she looked carefully around.
The guard inside the front entrance was reading. Schweik needed to get past him. She inhaled, keeping herself calm, and glided silently along the rear corridor to the basement entrance.
She waited. No movement or noise from the guard. Although the building was considered high security, the protection was less to keep people out than to shield the public from the lethal toxins, viruses, bacteria, and other dangerous scientific materials that were studied at USAMRIID. Although the guard was well trained, he lacked the aggressive edge of a sentry defending a lab where top-secret war weapons were created.
Relieved that he remained engrossed in his book, she tried the heavy metal door. It was locked. She took a set of keys from the case. The third one opened the basement door. She padded soundlessly downstairs, where she wound in and out among giant machines that heated and cooled the building, supplied sterile air and negative pressure for the labs, operated the powerful exhaust system, supplied water and chemical solutions for the chemical showers, and handled all the other maintenance needs of the medical complex.
She was sweating by the time she located the main box. She set the attaché case on the floor and withdrew from it a smaller case of tools, wires, color-coded connections, meters, switching units, listening devices, and miniature recorders.
It was evening, and the basement was quiet but for the occasional snap, gurgle, and hum of the pipes and shafts. Still, she listened to make sure no one else was around. Nervous energy sent chills across her skin. Warily she studied the gray walls. At last she opened the main box and went to work on the multitude of connections.