Peter May - Snakehead

They both looked up as the door opened, and a young man in his thirties, dark hair flopping across a flushed face, came in. Unlike his former boss the young geneticist’s lab coat was crisp and clean and fully buttoned. He looked at them both and then sat down and held up a coffee bean between forefinger and thumb. He nodded. ‘You were right,’ he said. ‘That’s what does it. Mendez spliced a promoter into his virus that is activated by a protein recognising the unique chemical flavour of Colombian washed Arabica coffee.’ He half-smiled, shaking his head in admiration. ‘Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. The man was a genius.’

‘A dead fucking genius,’ Hrycyk growled, and the young man flinched as if he had been slapped.

Margaret felt relief surge through her like a prescription relaxant. She could have wept. As long as she never drank coffee again both she and her child would be safe, even if she had to live with Mendez’s viral contaminant for the rest of her days. She said, ‘Colombian coffee. He had a finely honed sense of irony. He didn’t figure we were smart enough to understand it, or figure out what it was.’

‘Dead wrong, huh?’ Hrycyk chuckled, as if he thought he had made a joke.

‘The thing is,’ Margaret said, ‘maybe the Chinese don’t drink much coffee. But I’ll bet there’s Colombian in most blends in most coffee shops in America. It can only be a matter of time. Somehow we’ve got to get that message across. Fast. It could take just a single case to start the pandemic.’

She stood in the phone booth at the end of the hall fumbling in her purse for the FEMA list. She was certain it was there somewhere. She found various pieces of paper, folded and crumpled and smeared with eye make-up, near the bottom of the bag. But no FEMA list. She cursed and flipped with trembling fingers through her address book instead, and found Li’s home number in Georgetown where she had made the scribbled entry a couple of days before. She wanted to tell him that Xiao Ling was going to be okay. And somewhere, lurking at the back of her mind, was a hope she would not even dare to acknowledge, that somehow this might change things. She ran her credit card through the reader and tapped out the number. It rang in her ear. Long, single rings. Five of them. Six. Seven. After the tenth ring she reluctantly accepted that there was no one home and gave up. She had not made a note of his cellphone number. That was on the FEMA list which, in her mind’s eye, she saw now lying on her office desk. She hurried back along the corridor looking for Hrycyk.

They turned the corner at the intersection of Wisconsin and M, and passed beneath a golden dome supported on Greek pillars. From here they had a view down M Street toward the bridge over Rock Creek. Tall narrow shopfronts in red brick, trees newly planted along the sidewalk still in green leaf. Xinxin, happier than Li could remember, kept running ahead, only reining herself in when Xiao Ling or Meiping called on her not to go too far. They were an hour ahead of Houston time, and it was a beautiful morning, more like spring than fall. The sky was painfully clear, and the warmth of the sun on their faces lifted their spirits. Their White House tour was in the afternoon, and they had the morning to kill.

Xinxin knew where they were going. Li had taken her and Meiping on several occasions to the M Street Starbucks, and she was salivating already at the thought of the hot chocolate slathered in caramel that he would get for her. Outside Johnny Rockets, Li led them across the road through traffic that had ground to a halt. For a moment he considered taking them into Café Häagen-Dazs next door for an ice cream. But ice cream wasn’t on the list. They passed the Bistro Français and turned into the narrow rough brick doorway that opened into Starbucks Coffee Shop. A poster read: REMEMBER THE GOOEY, STICKY, BUTTERY-SWEET, LIP-LOCKING LOVE OF CARAMEL?

It was busier than Li had expected. People sat reading newspapers or talking in animated groups at tables beneath pictures of steaming mugs of Caramel Apple Cider and Caramel Macchiato. Li sat the girls up at the bar that ran along the window, and left them looking out at Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream Parlour across the street to go and fetch their order. He came back with tall cappuccinos for himself and Meiping, Xinxin’s favourite chocolate and caramel, and plain bottled water for Xiao Ling.

They talked excitedly about their trip to the White House. Li had secured them a VIP tour, and Xinxin wanted to know if they would meet the President’s dog. Xiao Ling watched Li and Meiping drinking their coffee and wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,’ she said. ‘It smells horrible.’

Li shrugged. ‘An acquired taste.’

‘Have you never tried it?’ Meiping asked.

Xiao Ling shook her head.

‘Mine’s great!’ Xinxin said.

Li laughed. ‘Yeah, but it’s not coffee, little one.’

His cellphone rang in his pocket, and for a moment he hesitated to answer. Only a handful of people knew this number, so it could only be official business. But that official business might include confirmation of their flight tomorrow, so he fished it out of his pocket and flipped down the mouthpiece. ‘Wei,’ he said.

‘Li Yan?’ A group of people at the next table laughed loudly at some inane joke and he could barely hear her voice. But he knew it was Margaret and he was at once tense. He stood up and moved away toward the door, slipping behind the glass and pressing a finger to his other ear.

‘Margaret?’

‘Li Yan, it’s coffee.’ There was a strange urgency in her voice. ‘Don’t let her drink coffee.’ And he did not immediately understand. How could Margaret know they were in a Starbucks?

‘What do you mean?’

‘The trigger. It’s in coffee.’

And even as her words sank in and he made the connection, he saw, through the glass, Meiping offering her cappuccino to Xiao Ling to try. She was laughing. And he could see the words form in her mouth, almost hear them above the din. It’s only coffee. What harm can it do?

Li’s yell cut across the hubbub in the coffee shop. He heard it distantly, as if it were someone else who had shouted. His legs felt leaden as they carried him in slow motion past the astonished faces of Starbucks customers. A table went spinning away to crash against the window, hot coffee streaking the glass, condensation forming instantly like frost. Someone’s angry voice burned his ear. A hand clutched at his arm. The cup was at Xiao Ling’s lips as he lunged at her, knocking it from her hand to clatter away across the floor. She was frozen in astonishment and fright, uncomprehending. Xinxin’s cries rose in her throat, giving vent to her fear. Why had Uncle Yan hit her mother? Li put his arms around his sister and drew her to him and immediately felt her sobs. He squeezed most of the breath from her and knew that death had been only a whisper away.

A member of staff was at his elbow demanding to know what he thought he was doing. Who did he think was going to clear up the mess? Someone stooped to pick his cellphone from the floor where it had slithered beneath a chair. He could hear Margaret’s voice. Urgent and fearful. ‘Li? Li? For God’s sake, Li, are you still there? What’s happened?’

He took the phone and put it to his ear, and with a voice that seemed so much calmer than he felt he said, ‘I’m here, Margaret.’

‘Is everything okay?’

‘Everything’s fine.’

And for a moment neither of them knew what else to say, or how to end the conversation. Then Margaret said, ‘So…’ her voice trailing away, her sentence unfinished.