David Walton - The Genius Plague

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll give you a peek at the server room before I escort you out.”

“What, no secrets?” he whispered as we left the conference room. The red lights were still flashing like silent sirens.

“Did you expect any?”

“I thought somebody might let something slip. You know, like who really assassinated Kennedy or where the alien technology is kept.”

I shrugged. “No such luck. One more treat before you go, though.” I waved my badge over the keypad and then pressed the correct sequence of numbers. The electromagnetic bolt clanked free, and I pushed open the door.

A blast of cool air ruffled our hair as the air pressure equalized, and the whir of thousands of rack-mounted servers filled our ears. Paul’s expression was priceless. He stepped into the cavernous space, eyes bright, gaping at the endless racks of machinery that seemed to dwindle into the horizon.

We descended a flight of stairs to the floor. I had only been in here once or twice since Melody showed it to me, since my job didn’t require it. Paul spun, taking it all in. “All the information in the whole world is in here,” he said.

“You may be exaggerating,” I said. “But, yeah. It’s a lot of bytes.”

Paul dropped to the floor—at first, I thought he had tripped—and stared down through one of the grates at the bundles of wires and cables that snaked under the floor, carrying information from the servers to the rest of the building. “It’s incredible.”

“Don’t drool on the wiring,” I said.

He climbed back to his feet, dusting off his hands. “And you’re part of all this. You can access this data, spy on the world, read everybody’s email.”

“Part of it, yeah. Read everybody’s email, no.”

“Just the bad guys.”

“Something like that.”

He grinned. “Thanks for getting me in here. It was pretty cool, even if you didn’t show me the telepathic ray gun.”

“No problem.”

On our way out, we ran into Melody.

“Thanks again, Dr. Johns,” she said.

“How’s your granddaughter?” Paul said. “Neil told me what happened to her.”

I winced inwardly, hoping Paul wasn’t about to voice his opinions on how teenagers should be allowed to take drugs to improve their test scores.

“She’s doing well,” Melody said. “Thanks for asking.”

“Out of curiosity, do you know what drugs they used to treat her?”

“I really have no idea.”

“Is there any medication she has to keep taking? Now that the crisis is past?”

Melody gave him an odd look. “I think there was, now that you mention it. Her mom said something about a pill she was supposed to take for a long time. A few years, she might have said. I’d never heard of anything like that.”

I felt a chill creep up my shoulders. Paul nodded, leaning forward. “This drug, this Neuritol. Do you know where it comes from?”

“Another student…”

“No, I mean originally. Who’s making it? Where does the supply come from?”

Melody crossed her arms. “Why are you asking all this? Is there something you know?”

“I’m sorry,” Paul said. “One more question. Does her intelligence seem greater since her recovery? Has she displayed any feats of intellect, such as remarkable memory or surprising bursts of intuition? Maybe performed exceptionally well on tests above her level?”

I could see the understanding dawn in Melody’s eyes. “You’re saying this is the same. That Neuritol introduces the same infection that is spreading in South America.”

“I don’t know. But it seems like a possibility. Someone could be isolating the spores and packaging it as an oral drug.”

“Would that be hard?”

Paul shrugged. “Not very. I could do it.”

I wanted to say, But you wouldn’t, right? I settled for saying, “If this is making its way into the United States, we need to know about it.”

“Agreed,” Melody said, her tone brusque. “Thank you for bringing it to our attention, Dr. Johns. If we have more questions for you on the details, may we contact you through Neil?”

“Of course.”

I walked Paul all the way out to the entrance and past the metal detectors. A uniformed MP took his badge, and he was free to take the car and drive through the gate on his own. I had already arranged with Shaunessy to drop me off on her way home at the end of the day. The phone in the guard booth rang and the MP answered it.

“Neil Johns?” he asked.

“That’s me.”

“Ms. Muniz wants you back in the office as soon as possible.”

I rushed back through the halls and back down to our basement room. “What’s going on?” I asked Melody.

“The DIRNSA called.”

“He wants to see us again?”

“Nope. He wants to see you.”

Kilpatrick had his phone to his ear when I eased into his office. “Well, find out,” he said. “We can’t hold off much longer.”

He hung up the phone and looked at me, his eyes active. “Who are you?”

“Neil Johns, sir.”

“Of course. Listen, Johns. Muniz tells me you’re a rising star.”

“If she says so.” I was pleased at the compliment, but terrified as to what it might mean. I doubted very much that the director of the world’s most powerful intelligence agency had called me into his office to pat me on the head and give me a gold star.

I didn’t have to wait long. “You’re coming with me to Brazil in the morning,” he said. “Our flight leaves at nine thirty.”

I felt panic rising. “Sir?”

“I know your history, and your father’s service, Johns. During the years he was posted in Brazil, you maintained a close friendship with the son of Júlio Eduardo de Almeida, who is now the Deputy Commander of the Agência Brasileira de Inteligência.”

His Portuguese pronunciation was terrible, but I didn’t point that out. Neither did I pretend to be surprised that the NSA knew who my childhood friends were. “I haven’t seen Celso in five years,” I said. “Besides, it’s his father who’s head of intelligence. Celso’s an engineering student. He doesn’t even have a security clearance.”

“All I want you to do is catch up with an old friend while you’re in town on business. Can you do that for me?”

I swallowed. Seeing Celso again would be nice, probably. I hadn’t been back to Brazil since I was sixteen. But Kilpatrick was obviously angling for some kind of information or access, which meant I would be using him, not just reconnecting. Then again, Kilpatrick wasn’t really asking.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Good. BWI, nine-thirty.”

“How long will we be there?”

Kilpatrick shrugged. “A few days. See Courtney for your tickets.”

Courtney was his administrative assistant, and she printed my boarding pass without a word. I was going to Brazil.

I left early. I had to pack a bag and prepare for my trip, though I didn’t really know what I would need. I remembered Kilpatrick’s shrug and mentally revised his “few days” into a week. My phone rang. Talking on the phone while driving was against Maryland law, but I answered it anyway, thinking it might be Melody, or even Kilpatrick.

It was Mom. “I just got the message,” she said. “Is he okay?”

“What? Is who okay?”

“Your father. Paul called to say he was taking him to the hospital.”

“When was this? Did he say why?” I saw then that my phone showed eight missed calls.

“This afternoon. I had to teach a class, so Paul offered to spend the rest of the day with him after he finished with you. The message just said he was heading to the ER, no details. Didn’t he call you?”