Michael Palmer - A Heartbeat Away

“But even with the new strain, there were still side effects,” Salitas added.

“What sort of side effects are we talking about here, Mr. President?” Bethany Townsend asked, her tone cool.

“I had been assured by Dr. Chen that the results from the new variant strain were most encouraging,” Allaire said. “But as I read through her reports it became increasingly clear that the germ still had some serious problems. It was unstable in terms of mutation, and there had been no progress made in controlling how it spread from host to host. In fact, the data suggested that the highly contagious nature of the virus had gotten worse.”

“So that’s when you shut down the program?” Tomlinson asked.

“In retrospect, I wish that were the case, Hank. Even with the setbacks, we still believed we had a silver bullet with WRX3883. I kept Vertias operational. Until the theft.”

“Theft?”

“Yes. Nine months ago, a presumed terrorist, working in the lab, stole five canisters of the virus. At least that’s how many we recovered from a compartment in the wall of his basement when we arrested him. Shortly after that I finally ordered the project shut down.”

“Did we have test animals at this Veritas lab?” Townsend asked.

“Yes. Mostly primates. Those were the research animals of choice for Dr. Chen. But she brought another virologist to Kansas with her—a scientist who was staunchly against animal testing and experimentation. His approach involved the use of advanced computer models of the virus and various treatments. He claimed his methods were capable of simulating, with near ninety-nine percent accuracy, the nature of the virus’s mutation patterns, as well as the effect of different antiviral drugs.”

“Ninety-nine percent sounds a bit optimistic,” Townsend said. “Especially given that his methods didn’t seem to work any better than Chen’s. So, what are we all in for here?”

“I’ll debrief you all about our exposure and what we can expect in a moment,” Allaire said. “But I can tell you that as far as contagion goes, the penetration statistics are daunting. Bethany, I know you’re angry. But I really need you. If you can, I’m putting you in charge of organizing our containment strategy. Veritas was headquartered in an underground facility. The lab had Level-Four containment, and aside from the insider theft I told you about, there were never any incidents. Gary will get you the contact information for the former director. Meanwhile, get in touch with the CDC and anyone else you need and have them help you. Try to maintain some control over who you tell what to. We’re going to need a whole bunch of containment suits and a safe way of getting food, medication, and personnel in here.”

For half a minute, Townsend simply sat there. Then, with painful slowness, she stood and crossed to the communications center.

“As you wish, sir,” she said.

“As for the rest of you,” Allaire went on, “I need you to be patient. Be as calm as possible. I’ve trusted you with this information because I think you can handle it, and because I need your help. We can’t risk starting a mass panic. Our hope now is that we develop a way to neutralize the virus and contain it inside the Capitol. All our energy and focus must be directed toward those efforts. And most importantly, I need you to support me and my decisions one hundred percent.” Allaire turned to architect Jordan Lamar. “All hell is about to break loose, Jordan. This building is going to be our home for a while. I’m counting on you to make it as comfortable for everyone as possible. Even though it’s the middle of winter, I’m worried that with seven hundred of us, the rooms are going to warm up fast from body heat, so we might need to boost the air-conditioning levels.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“Gary, I need you to help me make two calls.”

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“First get me Paul Rappaport in Minnesota.”

“No problem. And the other?”

“I need the warden at the supermaximum federal penitentiary in Florence, Colorado.”

The guard’s riot stick, slamming against his cell door, intruded into Griffin Rhodes’s nightmare, but failed to drive it completely away.

The recurring dream was especially vivid this time, intense sounds and colors … and pain, like daggers thrusting through his eyes.

The dreadful ache was in his abdomen, too—a powerful cramping as if his intestines were strangulating. Griff felt his bowels let go, and knew the gush beneath him was blood.

Marburg virus! I … have … Marburg virus. Let me die! Please just let me die.

He tried to cry out the words, but there was no sound—only the terrible cramping.

Griff pounded impotently on the wall by his head.

“Dr. Rhodes.… Can you hear me?… Dr. Rhodes?”

The voice in the dream was a woman’s—a Kenyan physician named Marielle—Dr. Marielle. She had been incredibly kind to him.

How long had it been? How many days? How many weeks?

More of the slamming against the steel cell door. It was one of the guards’ favorite ways of tormenting him.

He was standing in front of his bathroom mirror now, supporting himself on the edge of his rusted sink, staring at the expanding bruises on his face and at his eyes. It was Marburg. His horribly bloodred sclerae told him so. He had feared becoming infected from the day his fascination with deadly viruses began. Now, it was happening. Marburg—most likely the Ebola variant. Hemorrhagic fever. Sweats. Unimaginable muscle aches. Blood spewing from the nose and GI tract. Blood in the tendons and the skin. Blood on the brain.

Eighty percent death rate.

Blood.

For years he had been fearing this encounter, waiting for this attack, or something like it. For years he had anticipated the moment when his precautions would not be enough, when living on the edge would prove disastrous—when he would go from being the hunter to being the victim.

Finally, because of a stupid miscalculation outside of a jungle cave not far from Kisimu on the eastern rim of Lake Victoria, he was going to die, and die viciously. The best he could hope for before he was gone was to have the cave sealed, and to have Level 4 precautions instituted at all the surrounding hospitals … provided he survived long enough to do so.

The devastating cramps intensified. Now he was on his hands and knees in a field. Blood was pouring in two steady streams from his nostrils, falling to the parched ground in thick, angry drops. In the distance he could see the outline of his lab, a sprawling, cinder-block monolith, cutting a broad, rectangular chunk from the azure African sky.

Overhead, airplane-sized vultures circled. One of them glided to the ground, landing awkwardly and waddling across toward him, intent on pecking at his flesh.

Not yet, dammit! Not yet!

Once again, his eyes began to throb. Griff had always wondered what Ebola infection would feel like. Now he knew. His imagination had hardly done the virus justice. Praying for death was about the best he could do.

“Dr. Rhodes … Dr. Rhodes, can you hear me?… It is Dr. Marielle.… I swear he opened his eyes.… Did you see that?…”

The clanging on his steel door resumed, echoing through the cinder-block hell of his solitary confinement cell.

Which was worse, the nightmare or his reality?

The vulture was joined by another, then another—huge black shadows with fiery eyes, drifting down to gnaw on him. Each bite brought pain—pain and more blood. Griff thrashed on his cot and tried to bat them away.

Help!… Help me!

The vultures were unrelenting now, tearing away huge chunks of his flesh, challenging him to wake up.