Robin Cook - Vector

“Because that would cause too much attention,” Steve explained. “They’d be looking for us right away, maybe even worried we’d been the victims of foul play. Yuri says that using a bioweapon gives a two-to five-day delay until all hell breaks loose. I want us to be far away by then.”

“I guess you’re right,” Curt conceded.

“We’ll tell the captain we’ve had it with the bureaucracy and the lack of discipline. That won’t be a lie. We’ve both been complaining how the department has been deteriorating.”

“What if the captain says he’s not going to accept our resignations?”

“What is he going to do?” Steve asked. “Put us in leg irons?”

“I guess not,” Curt said. He still felt uncomfortable about having to face an irate captain. “But maybe we should give this part some more thought.”

“Fine by me,” Steve said. “As long as we’re on a PATH train to New Jersey ASAP, I don’t really care what we tell anybody. I’m confident of our getaway. I’ve got an old pickup truck over there in a garage near the first stop. That’s going to take us to the first safe house, in Pennsylvania. There I’ve arranged for another vehicle. In fact, we’ll be using a different vehicle after each stop.”

“I like that,” Curt said.

Curt turned into the Duane Street firehouse and pulled the car to the side so it didn’t block any of the gleaming red fire trucks. He and Steve locked eyes for a moment and gave each other a thumbs-up.

“Operation Wolverine is on track,” Curt said.

“Armageddon here we come,” Steve said.

As the two men alighted from the vehicle, Bob King, one of the latest recruits, looked up from polishing engine #7. “Hey, Lieutenant!” he called.

Curt gazed over at the rookie and raised his eyebrows.

“There was a cabbie in here a little while ago asking for you,” Bob yelled. “He was a short, squat guy with an accent that sounded Russian.”

Curt glanced at Steve. Steve stared back, aghast. Obviously he didn’t like this news any better than Curt did. There’d been an understanding that Yuri was never supposed to come to the fire station. Their contact had been limited to phone calls and meetings at the White Pride bar.

“What did he want?” Curt asked hoarsely. He had to clear his throat. With an operation of this magnitude, slipups were unacceptable.

“He wants you to call him,” Bob said. “He seemed disappointed you weren’t here.”

“What did you do to him?” another firefighter called out from behind the truck. “Forget to tip him?”

Laughter erupted from a group of four firemen playing cards near the juncture of the firehouse and the sidewalk. The overhead doors were open to the October afternoon.

“Did he leave his name or phone number?” Curt asked.

“Nope,” Bob said. “He just said to have you call him. I thought you’d know who he was.”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Curt said.

“Well, maybe he’ll be back,” Bob said.

Curt motioned for Steve to follow him. They climbed the stairs to the living quarters. Curt pushed into the men’s room. Once inside, he checked the stalls and the shower to make sure they were alone.

“I don’t like this,” Curt spat in a forced whisper. “What the hell did he come here for?”

“I told you the guy was a kook,” Steve said.

Curt paced back and forth like a caged animal. He had his mildly prognathous jaw clamped shut. He couldn’t believe Yuri could have been so stupid.

“I’m worried the guy is a kind of a loose cannon,” Steve said. “I think we have to have a talk with him. At the same time, I’d like to see some proof that he hasn’t been taking us for a ride.”

Curt nodded as he paced, then stopped. “All right,” he said. “After work we’ll go by his house in Brighton Beach. We’ll talk some sense into him about security. Then we’ll demand to see his lab and demand some proof he’s doing what he says he’s doing.”

“Do you know his address?” Steve asked.

“Fifteen Oceanview Lane,” Curt said.

Monday, October 18

12:30 p.m.

“Knock, knock,” a voice called.

Both Jack and Chet looked up from their desks to see Agnes Finn, the head of the microbiology lab, standing in the doorway.

“I feel like this is déjà vu, ” Agnes said. “Unfortunately it’s a kind of vu I don’t like.” She had a tentative smile on her usually dour face. Her statement was the closest Jack had ever heard her come to humor. She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand.

Jack knew instantly what déjà vu she was referring to. Three years previously, when he’d made the shocking diagnosis of plague in a curious infectious case, she’d made it a point to bring the confirming results personally.

“Don’t tell me it was anthrax,” Jack said.

Agnes pushed her bottle-bottom glasses higher on her nose and handed the sheet of paper to Jack. It was the result of a direct fluorescent antibody test on one of the mediastinal Lymph nodes. In bold capital letters it said: POSITIVE FOR ANTHRAX.

“This is unbelievable,” Jack said. He handed the sheet to Chet, who read it with equal disbelief.

“I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible,” Agnes said.

“Absolutely,” Jack said vaguely. His eyes were glazed. His mind was churning.

“What’s the reliability of this test?” Chet asked.

“About a hundred percent,” Agnes said. “It’s very specific and the reagents aren’t old. After all the exotic diseases Jack diagnosed on that flurry of infectious diseases a couple of years ago, I’ve made sure we’ve kept up to speed for most anything. Of course, for final confirmation we’ve planted cultures.”

“This illness spreads by spores,” Jack said as if waking from a trance. “Are there any tests for the spores or do you just have to grow them out and then test for the bacteria?”

“There’s a polymerase chain reaction or PCR test for the spores,” Agnes said. “We don’t do that in micro, but I’m sure Ted Lynch in the DNA lab could help you. Do you have something you want to test for spores?”

“Not yet,” Jack said.

“Uh oh,” Chet moaned. “I don’t like the sound of that. You’re not planning on going out in the field, are you?”

“I don’t know,” Jack admitted. He was still in a daze. A case of inhalational anthrax in New York was as unexpected as plague.

“Have you forgotten what happened to you last time you got involved with infectious-disease field work?” Chet asked. “Let me remind you: you were almost killed.”

“Thanks, Agnes,” Jack said to the micro department head. He ignored Chet. He turned back to his desk and pushed away the files relating to the prisoner-in-custody death which Calvin wanted completed ASAP. Jack slipped the contents of Jason Papparis’s file from the folder and thumbed through the papers until he came across Janice Jaeger’s forensic investigator’s report.

“Hey, I’m talking to you,” Chet said. It always irked him the way Jack could tune him out.

“Here it is,” Jack said. He held out Janice’s report with his finger pointing to the sentence that said that Mr. Papparis was in the rug business. “Look!”

“I see it,” Chet said with annoyance. “But did you hear me?”

“The problem is we don’t know what kind of rugs,” Jack said. “I think that could be important.” Jack turned the report over. Just as Janice had said, there was the name and phone number of the house doctor who’d taken care of Mr. Papparis.

Jack spun around and picked up his phone. He dialed the number and got the central switchboard of the Bronx General Hospital.