Джеймс Паттерсон - The Games

As the players returned to the field, the emotion in the crowd of seventy-five thousand rabid fans was off-the-charts electric. I had trouble staying on task when the referee blew his whistle and Maracanã Stadium morphed again into a madhouse crackling with hope and pulsing with fear.

When the ball went out-of-bounds and the din died down a little, I triggered my lapel mike, said, “Tavia?”

“Right here,” she said from the opposite side of the stadium.

“Tell everyone that this is not over yet, and we stay sharp until the very last person leaves this place.”

I heard her speaking Portuguese and then the crowd roared, drowning her out and sucking me right back into the game at the hundred and twelfth minute.

In a full sprint, Germany’s André Schürrle drove the ball down the left side of the pitch with Argentine defenders in hot pursuit. Schürrle dribbled toward the corner and just as he was about to be double-teamed, he struck the ball with his left foot.

The rising ball flew beautifully between both Argentine defenders and past a third before dropping to the chest of Germany’s Mario Götze, a substitute player sprinting toward goal. The ball bounced off Götze’s chest. Before it could hit the ground, he let loose with a nifty feat of kung fu, booting the ball out of the air and into the net.

The place went insane with a roar that hurt my ears. The Germans were deliriously singing “Deutschland über Alles” while the Argentines screamed in disbelief, ripped at their hair, and cried as if a wedding had just turned into a funeral.

I’d never seen anything like it.

More than seven minutes remained in the overtime, but I began to move laterally through the stadium toward a blue stage erected in the stands high above midfield. This was where the trophies would be awarded. I figured that if there was going to be a security issue, it would happen when the politicians and lords of FIFA emerged from their bulletproof hospitality suites and exposed themselves to the players, the fans, and the world.

Only four minutes remained on the clock by the time I got to the area. Already a large company of burly Brazilian policemen in matching blue suits, ties, and white gloves were moving to positions on either side of the aisle of steps the players would climb to reach the stage. Colonel da Silva was coming down the stairs on the opposite side, inspecting the security line.

On the stage itself, on a long table draped in white, the trophies were being assembled and positioned. Behind the table, overseeing the arrangements, was a man I knew slightly, an acquaintance, really. Henri Dijon was French and the primary spokesman for FIFA.

In every encounter I’d had with Dijon, he’d been unflappable, well spoken, and impeccably dressed. He was also a health nut and ordinarily appeared tanned and fit. But in those last minutes of the World Cup final, Dijon looked pale and weak as he patted his sweaty brow. And his clothes seemed, for him, anyway, disheveled.

The crowd roared. I spun around, saw Argentina’s superstar Lionel Messi lining up for a free kick about thirty-five yards from the goal with less than two minutes on the clock. If Argentina had a chance, this was it.

Instead of raising the decibel level, all the Argentines had gone silent and apprehensive. Then Messi booted the ball over the top of the goal, and a great wave of groaning broke over the stadium.

When the referee blew the whistle a short while later, ending the game, the Argentines were wretched and the Germans dancing. Down on the field, it was the same, the world champions celebrating and the almost champions grieving and despondent at what might have been.

“Jack, da Silva says the VIPs are ready to move,” I heard Tavia say in my earpiece. “Chancellor Merkel will come last with her own security contingent.”

“Roger that,” I said, turning away from the field.

My intent was to climb high above the stage before any of the VIPs started down. But I’d taken no more than two steps when I saw Henri Dijon come toward me as if he were drunk and forced to walk a high wire.

The man was drenched with sweat and trembling. He lurched and stumbled, and I caught him before he could face-plant on the concrete.

“Henri?” I said.

“Doctor,” he said thickly. His eyes were unfocused and bloodshot.

“We’ll get you a medic,” I said.

“No,” Dijon gasped. “Not here. I don’t want to ruin the ceremony.”

Tavia had seen Dijon falter and came across the stage in time to hear him. She said, “Let’s get him to the clinic.”

We held him under his arms and supported and lifted him up the twenty or so stairs. Having the wall of guards on either side made it easier for us and less humiliating for the FIFA spokesman.

“Oh God,” Dijon moaned. “Something’s wrong. Terribly wrong.”

Tavia put her hand on his brow after we’d gotten him out of the stands and into the deserted halls of the stadium.

“He’s burning up,” she said, and we dragged him to the clinic.

The nurse on duty got him on a bed and tried to check his vital signs. But Dijon went into some kind of seizure; his whole system seemed to go haywire, his body arching grotesquely with violent spasms.

“Call for a doctor,” the nurse cried as she tried to hold Dijon down. “There has to be one in the stands. I can’t handle something like this, and I don’t think he’d survive an ambulance ride.”

Tavia radioed Colonel da Silva, who relayed the message. A moment later, over the loudspeaker, a man’s calm voice asked for any physicians in the stadium to go to the clinic, where there was a medical emergency.

In two minutes, a shaggy-haired blond man with a mustache came running up to the clinic. “I’m a doctor. What have you got?”

The nurse started firing off the patient’s vital signs as the doctor grabbed sterile gloves and a mask and went to Dijon’s side. The man’s spasms had slowed to tremors. The doctor set to work and the nurse drew the curtain.

In the hall outside the tiny clinic, Tavia, shaken, said, “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“I saw some rough stuff in Afghanistan, but that was right up—”

The doctor tore back the curtain and hustled toward the door with the nurse crying after him, “Are you sure?”

“Sure enough to be getting out of that room,” he yelled. “You should too.”

“What’s happening?” Tavia demanded as he rushed out.

“He’s dead,” the doctor said, hurrying by us.

“Where are you going?” the nurse cried.

“I’m a plastic surgeon, no expert on infectious diseases, but that looks like Ebola to me,” he shouted over his shoulder. “And because I am no expert, I am getting the hell out of here before this entire stadium is put under quarantine!”

The doctor broke into a run and left us there. Gaping at this news, I stared in at the lifeless form of Henri Dijon, who was sprawled on the bed at an unnatural angle, his skin now livid, almost purple, and blood trickling from his lips.

I looked to Tavia and the nurse, who were also in shock.

“Call da Silva,” I said. “And tell the nurse to shut that door.”

Tavia put in the call while the nurse sealed off the room where Dijon lay.

“Da Silva’s on his way,” Tavia said. “Says to talk to no one. Jesus, Jack, we could be infected. What do we do?”

Feeling afraid and shaky for the first time, I said, “Strip, burn our clothes, and cover ourselves in Saran Wrap?”

Lucas Castro waited until he was blocks away from Maracanã Stadium before he removed the blond wig and fake mustache and dropped them in a trash can.

They can’t ignore that, the doctor thought, looking back at the brilliantly lit stadium where Shakira was singing. Someone will pay attention now. The deaths of Jorge and his sister won’t be in vain. The death of—