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The Pinocchio Syndrome
David Zeman


An international thriller of political intrigue, personal betrayal and cutting-edge science, The Pinocchio Syndrome marks the debut of a brilliant new talent.

America is in turmoil. And that spells trouble for the entire world.

In the middle of a vicious struggle for the leadership of the country, the vice president is struck down by a new ‘living death’ disease that is breaking out across the globe – the ‘Pinocchio Syndrome’. With the current administration close to collapse, and billionaire extremist Colin Goss and his dangerous views gaining ground, it seems that only one man can unite the country – Michael Campbell, a popular, media-friendly young senator. But what is his secret? In a nerve-shredding race against time, a Secret Service agent and troubled female journalist are forced together to crack a conspiracy that could destroy the world …





David Zeman

The Pinocchio Syndrome











Dedication


To Susan and to Karen







Pinocchio looked at Candlewick. To his astonishment he saw that Candlewick’s teeth had grown very large, and that his ears were growing longer.

Pinocchio looked at his own face in the mirror, and saw that his ears were growing longer too, as were his teeth. He looked down at his hands and saw that they were turning into hoofs. So were his feet.

Pinocchio cried out in terror. But his cry came out as the braying of a donkey.

    PINOCCHIO




Prologue


May 15

Aboard the cruise ship Crescent Queen Somewhere west of Crete



It begins with a fairy-tale prince and an open sea …

‘Look at the way he moves.’

‘He’s sexy.’

‘Look at the way his ass moves when he jumps.’

‘Don’t you two ever think of anything else?’

The Crescent Queen, a charter cruise ship of American ownership staffed by an English crew, was sailing smoothly on a calm sea, her decks bathed in Mediterranean sunlight.

Three girls, all thirteen years old, were standing on the promenade deck, their eyes riveted to a volleyball game being played by eight boys their own age. The boys were sweating from their exertions, calling out encouragement to each other as they changed position and dove for the ball. The deep blue of the waves made a brilliant backdrop to the game.

The prettiest girl, Gaye, was also the shyest. She had a crush on the dark-haired boy who was now serving the volleyball. She lacked the confidence to approach him or even to smile when their eyes met, but she had made no secret of her feelings to her two friends.

Their names were Alexis and Shanda. Alexis was a tall girl with unruly auburn hair and a determination to wear as much makeup as she could get away with. Shanda, whose parents were both physicians, was the most aggressive of the three. Her mother, back home in Connecticut, had already endured many sleepless nights over Shanda, who seemed to be on a fast track leading to cigarettes, alcohol, and perhaps pregnancy.

The present cruise had been chartered by the National Talented and Gifted Scholarship Association, whose acronym was TAGS. The purpose of the Association was to encourage achievement by junior high school students around the country by sponsoring events that would reward the students for good grades and challenge them intellectually.

There were eight hundred students aboard, along with sixty-five teachers from around the country and a crew of sixty. The cruise was six weeks long, with extended stopovers in Australia, New Zealand, and Hawaii. En route the students were given intensive course work in language, science, and history. There was to be a competitive exam given on the way back to New York, the winners to be honored with scholarships and a guaranteed return cruise next year.

A less-than-publicized fact about intellectually gifted children is that they tend to be sexually precocious. This was particularly true of Shanda, whose career in junior high had already included some amorous adventures that she had managed with considerable difficulty to keep secret. Shanda had quickly gravitated to Alexis the day the Crescent Queen set sail from New York Harbor. The two had co-opted Gaye into their friendship because they envied her beauty and were beguiled by her sweet, gentle personality.

An only child, Gaye had been lively and rambunctious until the onset of puberty dropped a shroud of self-consciousness over her personality. For a while she was so withdrawn that her mother sent her to a child psychiatrist. Then it was discovered that her IQ was 164. Her moodiness was chalked up to her high intelligence and the routine identity crisis experienced by gifted children. It did not help that she was the only daughter of Kemper Symington, the United States secretary of defense, a highly visible architect of the current administration’s foreign policy.

Like everyone else on board, the three girls had become aware of handsome Jeremy Asner, a tall, athletic boy from Riverside, California, who was the sole representative of his school district on this cruise. Jeremy was a junior high school all-American in soccer, and had dreams of a career in politics.

A well-spoken, polite boy whose gray eyes had a dreamy and somehow withdrawn quality, Jeremy had quickly become the most popular boy on the Queen. Shanda and Alexis had coveted him from afar for several weeks, but had made no romantic headway with him. Now they had decided their best bet was to set Jeremy up with Gaye, who exceeded them in physical beauty and seemed more Jeremy’s type. If Gaye got to first base with Jeremy, the victory would be for all three.

The only problem was Gaye herself. She was too shy to approach Jeremy directly. Weeks of wheedling by her two willful friends had not moved her. Before long the cruise would be over and it would be too late.

Tonight, however, was the Week Five dance, to be held in the main ballroom. According to the rules set by the social committee, anyone could invite anyone. Girls were free to invite boys. Shanda and Alexis were giving their final push to Gaye.

‘You’ve got to invite him,’ Shanda said. ‘I talked to his roommate. He doesn’t have a date. He’s even thinking of not going to the dance. He’s just waiting for you, Gaye!’

‘I don’t know,’ Gaye temporized, looking across the deck at the boys, who were now changing sides. Under the bright sunlight, his dark hair tousled by the wind, Jeremy looked almost too handsome to be real. She felt unworthy to approach him. He looked like a prince out of a fairy tale.

If only I knew he liked me …

Sensing Gaye’s thoughts, Shanda said, ‘Look, he thinks you’re cute. His roommate told me. But he thinks you’re standoffish. He’s afraid to talk to you.’

Gaye took this news with suspicion. ‘When did you talk to him?’

‘Last night after dinner,’ Shanda said. ‘For God’s sake, Gaye, can’t you see this is your chance? You can ask him to the dance. That way he doesn’t have to get up his guts to ask you. There’s no risk. It’s guaranteed!’

Gaye had only known Shanda for a few weeks, but she was familiar enough with her mannerisms to know when she was lying. This story didn’t sound right.

‘If he likes me, he can ask me,’ she responded.

‘He can’t, dummy!’ Shanda exploded. ‘He’s afraid of you. Don’t you listen?’

Gaye still hung back.

Then something happened that forced the girls’ hand. Jeremy left his friends and headed toward the academic area amidships. The game went on without him.

‘I can’t do it,’ Gaye said fearfully.

‘If you can’t, I will,’ Shanda said.

Still a bit out of breath, Jeremy called something over his shoulder to one of his friends. He was coming straight toward the girls.

Gaye knew she was trapped. Shanda, the aggressive one, would not hesitate to speak to him on Gaye’s behalf. Jeremy was only a dozen feet from her now, not looking at her but coming straight toward her.

‘Come on, dummy,’ Shanda hissed in her ear as she pushed her forward.

The push was rough. Gaye’s slender young body was flung forward, right into the path of the approaching boy. She tried to catch her balance, but it was too late. She saw Jeremy’s arms react as his eyes turned to her. In that last split second she thought, Shanda was lying. He doesn’t like me. He can’t –

The thought never completed itself. Before she could turn to dart a look of reproach at her friend, Gaye Symington ceased to exist.

Shanda and Alexis were sharing a grin of complicity when their bodies turned to vapor.

No one heard the blast or even saw the flash. The deuterium and tritium that fuse in a hydrogen bomb are heated within a few microseconds to a temperature of ten million degrees centigrade. The energy from the reaction heats the surrounding air to a temperature of 300,000 degrees after one hundredth of a millisecond.

There would be no wreckage for the searchers to find. The only proof that there had been a ship here, and a nuclear explosion, would be a digital blip on monitor screens in radar installations around the world.

Jeremy Asner’s last thought before death canceled his brain was She’s prettier close up.




Book One

The Pied Piper





The Piper was angry when the townspeople refused to pay him for getting rid of the rats. In revenge, he decided to kill all the children of the town. He lured them to the river with the song of his pipe. The children could not resist the song, any more than had the rats. They hurried to the river and flung themselves in, one by one. All were drowned.

Only one child survived – a deaf boy who could not hear the song of the pipe. He remained at home, and found out afterward that all his friends were gone.

    ‘THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN’




1



SIX MONTHS LATER

Liberty, Iowa

November 15

11:45 A.M.



Snow fell silently, like a sleep coming over the land.

The postman came around the corner, pulling his bag behind him. he wheels of his cart left moist black trails in the fresh snow on the sidewalk. A crumpled snowman, made from yesterday’s storm, regarded the passing postman pathetically, its corncob pipe falling down its face.

It was the biggest snow on record for this time of year. School had been canceled yesterday. Today was Saturday, so the town’s children could enjoy what was left of the accumulation with their sleds and flying saucers.

The postman wore his Saturday look, a bit more watchful than usual, as he started to cross the street. Saturdays were more dangerous for him than weekdays, and more interesting. Children were on the loose. With children came snowballs, pranks, and sometimes an unruly dog. He had to be on his toes.

But something stopped him in the middle of the street. He stood still in his tracks, his cart beside him, his eyes fixed on something beyond the houses and the trees and the snow-covered lawns. One hand was raised toward his chin, as though to stroke it thoughtfully. The other was at his side. His eyes blinked as a wind-blown snowflake plopped on the lashes. His mouth was closed, the jaws set rigidly.

No one would find him for ten minutes. As luck would have it, the children were all inside their houses, playing in their rooms, watching Saturday-morning television, or getting ready for lunch. Those mothers who were not out at work did not expect the mail until after noon, so no one came out to check a mailbox.

During those ten minutes the postman did not move a muscle. He was as rigid as the dying snowman who sagged under the new-fallen snow.



The mother was standing in her kitchen, watching the news station on TV as she talked to her sister on the phone.

‘No,’ she said. ‘Just getting ready to give the kids lunch.’

She paused, listening to something her sister was saying.

‘No,’ she said with some anger. ‘I’m so fed up with husbands, I’m not going to move a muscle. They can get along without me. I’ve had it.’

She craned her neck to glance into the playroom. Her maternal radar had alerted her to the fact that the little ones were up to something.

‘Just a second,’ she said to her sister. Then she held the phone against her breast and shouted at her older child, the boy, ‘Stop doing that to her!’

There was a pause. The mother went to the door of the playroom and gave both children a hard look. ‘Lunch in five minutes,’ she said. ‘Don’t leave this room until you clean up this mess.’

They were five and seven. The little girl was quiet enough when left to her own devices, but the boy, Chase, was a terror. When he wasn’t torturing his sister he was putting her up to some sort of mischief. It was impossible to leave them alone in a room for half an hour without a crisis resulting.

The mother went back to the kitchen, the cordless phone in her hand. On the TV screen was the face of Colin Goss, the controversial right-wing politician whose rise in the polls had alarmed many observers.

‘God,’ she said, ‘there’s that maniac Goss on the news.’

‘Turn it off,’ her sister advised.

‘I wish I could turn him off,’ the mother said.

Both sisters hated Colin Goss, a perennial independent candidate for president who had lost three times in the general election. They considered him a pure demagogue, a menace to freedom and a potential Hitler. Their husbands, however, had been swept up in the recent groundswell of support for Goss. It was difficult to get through an evening without an argument on this subject.

‘Gary watches all Goss’s speeches on C-SPAN,’ the mother said. ‘He actually thinks the guy makes sense.’

‘So does Rich. I’ve heard him say it a thousand times. Colin Goss is strong, Colin Goss is the only man who has the guts to do what needs to be done. To me he’s a madman. Also, he’s icky.’

‘Creepy. You’re right.’

A lot of men admired Goss for his success in business and his strength and toughness. They viewed him as a dynamic leader who could ‘save the country.’ But when many women looked at Goss’s face they saw a lecher, a dirty old man. There was something cruelly sensual about Goss that repelled them.

Colin Goss’s main campaign issue was, and always had been, antiterrorism. A Nobel Prize-winning biochemist who had built his own pharmaceutical empire from nothing, Goss had gone on to become one of the richest conglomerators in the world. His influence was said to extend to every corner of government and the private sector. Over the years Goss had had run-ins with terrorists whose activities had affected his business dealings overseas. In the 1990s he emerged as the most eloquent, and certainly the most strident, antiterrorist in American politics.

Goss’s views never caught on, primarily because terrorism had not yet hit Americans close to home, and also because his speeches bristled with thinly veiled racism, particularly against Arabs and other people of color. When Goss talked of ‘cleaning up’ the Third World and the American underclass, many political observers cringed. Rhetoric like this had not been heard since the fascist movements of the 1930s.

But the World Trade Center attack changed the political climate. And with that attack still fresh in the public mind, the Crescent Queen disaster created a new political world.

‘If it weren’t for the Crescent Queen,’ the mother said, ‘no one would give Goss the time of day. But people are scared out of their wits.’

‘Well, it’s no wonder,’ her sister said. ‘All those poor children vaporized out in the ocean. It’s unbelievable.’

Military and scientific observers had determined that the Crescent Queen was destroyed by a tactical nuclear weapon delivered by ballistic missile. No terrorist group had taken credit for the attack. The president had promised that those responsible would be brought swiftly to justice. ‘The Crescent Queen disaster must not only be solved,’ he said. ‘It must be avenged.’

But in the six months since the attack, the combined efforts of the federal intelligence services had failed to identify the perpetrators. A state of fear unequaled since the Cuban missile crisis had set in among Americans.

A week after the attack a terrifying piece of video was sent to the major television networks and cable stations from an unknown source. It showed the Crescent Queen floating placidly in the Mediterranean, in such close focus that the name of the ship was visible on the bow. Then the nuclear explosion vaporized the vessel, and the camera pulled back to show the mushroom cloud rising majestically over the blue sea. The video had clearly been shot from a surface vessel at a safe distance from the blast.

‘It gives you the creeps,’ said the sister. ‘Just waiting to see where the next one is going to drop. I can’t sleep at night.’

‘Gary thinks the Muslims are behind the whole thing,’ said the mother. ‘He says the nuclear technology is being provided by Iraq or Libya or somebody, and the Muslim terrorists are pushing the button.’

‘Maybe he’s right. But it doesn’t make much difference, since we don’t know what to do about it. I feel like a sitting duck. I’m scared for my kids.’

‘Do you know what Rich says? He says kill all the Muslims and everything will fall into place.’

‘Gary is exactly the same. He says nuke the Arabs and divide the oil resources among the developed countries, and our troubles will be over.’

Many American men had similar opinions. It was hard to avoid unreasoning anger when they saw news video of Muslims marching in the streets of Middle Eastern capitals to celebrate the Crescent Queen disaster. Shaking fists and holding up signs that read DEATH TO AMERICA, the Muslims considered the attack a victory over the United States. Islamic terrorism was on the upswing, spreading throughout developing countries like a cancer. Governments in the Middle East, South Asia, and North Africa, intimidated by the Muslim groundswell, did not dare to refuse safe haven to the terrorists, even though this brought economic reprisals from America.

Meanwhile the continuing oil crisis, fostered by hostile Arab states, aggravated the recession that had begun just before the president’s election. Unemployment was at its highest point in a generation.

Few Americans dared to remember the time, only a few years ago, when the worst problem the nation faced was what to do with the surplus. The old world was gone. A new one had taken its place, a world in which one held one’s breath and waited for disaster to strike.

‘You know,’ said the mother, ‘I believe Gary honestly thinks that’s what Goss will do if he gets into office.’

‘You mean kill all the Muslims?’

‘Yes. That, or something like that – crazy as it sounds.’

‘I don’t know … It does sound insane, but I’m not sure I would completely put it past Goss. There’s something about those eyes of his … You know, Hitler never actually said he was going to kill people, either.’

‘I can’t believe we’re actually saying if he gets in,’ said the mother. ‘Ten years agó it would have been unthinkable.’

‘Yeah, but that was before the Crescent Queen. People want revenge. Men especially.’

‘The recession has a lot to do with it too. Being out of work for two years can do something to a man’s mind. I know it’s done something to Gary’s mind. He never used to be this way.’

The president’s popularity was at an all-time low. There was talk in Congress to the effect that he should resign. A constitutional amendment would permit a special election in which the American people could choose a new leader. Colin Goss was a visible spearhead of this movement. In the new climate of fear and anger, Goss was viewed as a viable candidate for president. His standing in the polls had been increasing steadily as public confidence in the administration declined.

‘Rich says if Goss runs for president he’ll be the first one at the polls. He wants to vote for Goss that badly.’

‘I just pray it never happens.’

The mother turned away from the TV. As she did so she saw the postman through the window, standing in the middle of the street. She frowned as she noticed his immobility. His shoulders and cap were now covered by a light layer of snow.

‘Listen,’ she said to her sister, ‘I’ve got to go. There seems to be something wrong with Mr Kennedy. I’ll call you back, okay?’

She hung up the phone, quickly looked in on the children, and threw on her coat. She remembered at the front door to put on her boots. She made her way across the snow-covered lawn to the sidewalk, and then into the street.

An odd stillness hung over the block as she moved toward the silent mailman. There was not a car in sight, not a tire track the entire length of the street. Snowflakes swayed downward like pillows from the gray sky.

She was close enough now to see the snowflakes on the mailman’s nose and eyelashes. His face was rigid. He reminded her of the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, who simply froze in one position when the rain caused him to rust.

‘Mr Kennedy?’ she asked. ‘Are you all right?’

The postman’s eyes were a pale blue. They gave no sign that he had heard her. Something about them was strange, but it would not be until much later, telling her story to the health authorities, that she would put it into words by saying that his eyes were as though hypnotized from within.

She called to him several more times, and dared to touch his sleeve. But he was like a statue, completely oblivious of her.

She saw a couple of neighbor children coming toward her.

‘Stay back, children,’ she called. ‘Mr Kennedy may be sick.’

The children moved reluctantly away. The mother hurried inside, told Chase and Annie to stay in the playroom, and then called 911. The operator got the street wrong, and it was not until about twenty-five minutes later that a police car rolled to a stop alongside the immobile mailman. By now some more children had emerged from the surrounding houses and were gawking from their front lawns.

One of the policemen approached the mailman. He noticed a wet area on the man’s cheek. Looking down, he saw the remnants of a snowball on the ground at the mailman’s feet.

‘Children, I want you all to go inside your houses now,’ he said, motioning to his partner, who herded the children away.

The policeman tried to help the mailman into the cruiser, but the mailman seemed to resist, clinging to the spot where he stood. His jaws were clenched tightly, and he had a look of empty, meaningless stubbornness on his face.

After another few minutes of indecisive parley, an ambulance was called. When it arrived two paramedics discussed the situation with the police and finally lifted the mailman onto their gurney and slid him into the back of the ambulance.

‘All right, children,’ said one of the mothers who had ventured onto her frozen stoop. ‘It’s all over now. Let’s all get inside before we freeze our noses off.’

The children, bored now that the police car and ambulance were gone, went back into their houses.



The emergency room physician who examined Wayne Kennedy that afternoon found all his vital signs essentially normal. Heart rate, blood pressure, even reflexes were well within normal limits. But the patient could not speak or perform simple commands. (‘Wayne, can you lift your little finger for me?’) His eyes were seen to notice a flashlight beam as it was moved across his field of vision, but when asked to follow the light on command, he could not or would not obey.

By evening Kennedy had been moved to a semiprivate room adjacent to the intensive care ward. The doctors did not understand his condition, so they did not know what to expect. Emergency life support might become necessary if some unknown toxic or infectious agent was behind his illness. On the other hand, the silence and the stubborn immobility suggested a mental disturbance, and Kennedy would have to be watched for this as well.

By nine o’clock that night, most of the physicians and interns on duty had had a look at the patient, and none could offer a constructive thought.

The nurses were told to keep a close watch on him, and he was put to bed for the night.

In all this time Wayne Kennedy, a fifteen-year veteran of the postal service with a large family of his own, had not uttered a single sound.




2


Alexandria, Virginia

November 16

7 A.M.



Karen Embry was dreaming.

The fringes of a troubled sleep procured by nearly half a bottle of bourbon made her dream intense and disturbing.

She was applying for a job in a very tall building. The elevator thrust her upward with such force that the wind was knocked out of her. She thought she was going to wet her pants.

The personnel director greeted her when the elevator opened. Looking down at herself, she noticed with a shock that she had nothing on below the waist. Just the suit jacket and foulard she had worn for the job application, the large purse and the red leather shoes.

She opened the purse, which seemed inordinately huge, to search for the missing skirt and underwear. The purse was completely empty.

I’ve got to get to the ladies’ room. She saw the door marked ‘Ladies’ and went through it. The personnel director smiled indulgently, as though to say, ‘Yes, go ahead, I’ll wait for you.’ But at the last second he darted into the ladies’ room behind her.

There was something magical about that entry, for when they got inside he was no longer a man, he was a little girl. Karen looked at herself in the mirror and saw that she, too, had regressed through time and was small again, as she had been back home in Boston. She was still naked below the waist. So was the other girl.

‘Let’s touch each other,’ the girl said. Karen thought she recognized her as a childhood friend, Elise perhaps. The girls stretched out their hands to fondle each other.

A tremor shook the building. It’s an earthquake. The building tilted suddenly to one side. The doors to the toilet stalls swung open with a bang.

Karen tried to escape, but the little girl had hold of both her hands. The building was falling over with an enormous roar. Karen was tumbling through space, about to be buried by tons of concrete and steel.

Help! Help me!

With a scream in her throat, Karen woke up.

The alarm was ringing. She reached sleepily to turn it off, realizing with a smile that the roar of the crumbling building in her nightmare had actually been the buzz of the alarm clock.

The headache hit just as she was fumbling for the button. The empty glass beside the bed reminded her of how much bourbon it had taken to leave her in this shape. A throb in her bladder told her she had to pee. No wonder the dream had been about a bathroom, she thought.

With a groan she got out of the bed and stood up.

‘Jesus,’ she said. The headache was much worse. She staggered to the bathroom, flung open the medicine cabinet, and found the Advil bottle. She shook three of the brown tablets into her trembling hand and filled the dirty water glass from the tap. She moved to the kitchen. Mercifully, the coffeemaker was full and ready to perk. She had remembered last night, despite the booze, to fill it.

She turned the machine on and padded back to the bedroom. The churning sound of the coffeemaker was like a fist squeezing repeatedly at her throat.

‘Jesus Christ,’ she moaned. ‘Hurry.’

It took seven long minutes for the coffee to perk. The Advil still had not taken effect when she brought her first cup back to the bed. With her eyes half closed she turned on the little bedroom TV.

Washington Today, one of the most-watched political talk shows, was on. Dan Everhardt, the vice president, was being assailed by two right-wing senators who challenged him to defend the administration’s policy on terrorism.

‘Just tell me how you can defend a policy that simply doesn’t work,’ one of them demanded.

‘The fact is that our policy on terrorism does work,’ Everhardt said. ‘In cooperation with other governments around the world we have prevented countless terrorist attacks over the years.’

‘Not as many as you could have prevented.’

‘That’s not quite fair.’

‘Not the World Trade. Not the Crescent Queen.’

Karen smiled. Dan Everhardt was not a good debater. A quiet family man, a former defensive lineman at Rutgers, he projected honesty and integrity rather than glib eloquence. The president had chosen him as his running mate for precisely that reason.

Everhardt was very popular. He stood six feet five inches tall and was, in his ruddy way, quite handsome. Unfortunately, his slowness on the uptake was hurting him in this debate against two strident pro-Goss spokesmen.

‘Those were terrible tragedies,’ he said. ‘But we learned valuable lessons from them. I —’

‘Not the lessons we needed to learn,’ said one of the senators. ‘The World Trade should have taught us to destroy these fanatics before they attack us. The Crescent Queen tragedy took place precisely because we had not learned that lesson. Nine hundred innocent people slaughtered, most of them children. And we still don’t know who is responsible. We sit here like sheep waiting for the slaughter. The next hydrogen bomb could land on New York or Washington. Don’t you people in the White House have any conception of what we’re up against?’

Unfortunately for the vice president, the show’s director took this opportunity to cut to an image of the mushroom cloud rising above the blue Mediterranean where the Crescent Queen had been.

Even more unfortunately, the moderator now interrupted the proceedings to bring in Colin Goss himself, via split screen from his corporate headquarters in Atlanta.

‘Mr Goss, can you bring some perspective to the debate going on here?’

‘Well, I hope I can.’ Goss leaned forward, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the camera. ‘I honor my distinguished colleagues, and I think they speak out of a sincere regard for our nation at this perilous time. However, I don’t agree with Vice President Everhardt’s logic. I don’t think our policy on terrorism works. Let me put the analogy to the vice president in a different way. Suppose a farmer has a sheep ranch, and wolves are breaking through his fences and killing his sheep. He has consulted the best experts about the fences, and has learned that no fence can be built that will completely protect his sheep. He now has two choices. He can either close down his ranch, sell his sheep, and give up – or he can shoot the wolves that are killing his sheep.’

He joined his hands in a gesture of resolve. ‘The American people seem to feel, as I do, that it is time to fight back against the mad dogs who are massacring our children.’

Karen smiled. Time to fight back. That was one of Goss’s favorite campaign slogans. Mad dogs was his code word for terrorists. ‘You can’t negotiate with a mad dog,’ he liked to say.

Goss had leaned back, but his eyes still seemed to glare into the camera. Those eyes had made him a national figure, for they expressed a powerful will and great intelligence. But some observers said they were also the reason he had lost the three presidential elections in which he had run. There was something dangerous in Goss’s look. Some saw it as strength, others as ruthlessness. He had the look of a leader, but perhaps of a bad man.

Dan Everhardt was caught off guard by Goss’s analogy.

‘For one thing,’ he said, ‘we have fought back. We fought back with great success in Afghanistan …’

‘Our campaign in Afghanistan only provoked the terrorists,’ Goss retorted. ‘And did it prevent the Crescent Queen disaster? We knew for years that the terrorists were developing weapons of mass destruction. The handwriting was on the wall. Yet we did nothing, and look where it has gotten us.’ He smiled patronizingly. ‘In sports there is an old saying, ‘The best defense is a good offense.’ I wonder if the vice president and his administration have ever really understood this.’

‘There’s something about your analogy I don’t like,’ Everhardt said tentatively. ‘For one thing, in this civilized world we don’t solve our problems by taking out guns and shooting people.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Goss. ‘We use force to defend ourselves when the adversary doesn’t understand reason. Perhaps the vice president doesn’t remember how we defeated Hitler and Saddam Hussein.’

He leaned forward again, his eyes darkening. ‘But the situation is even simpler now. This is not a territorial struggle, as it was with Hitler or Saddam. These terrorists have only one aim. They want to kill Americans. They’ve said it over and over, they don’t make any bones about it. To kill Americans. And our response has been to sit here waiting for them to attack. That response is worse than cowardice. It is insanity.’

At this point Dan Everhardt made a crucial error.

‘But how would we know who to attack?’ he asked. ‘We don’t know who was behind the Crescent Queen.’

There was an audible intake of breath among those present. Everhardt had admitted his administration’s weakness, both intelligence gathering and in retaliation.

Colin Goss’s lips curled in disdain. ‘If we had the right leadership in Washington,’ he said, ‘we would know who to attack.’

The silence that followed this remark was deeply embarrassing for Everhardt and those who supported the administration.

‘Well, I …’ Dan Everhardt stammered.

The moderator came to his rescue. ‘We have another special guest via satellite. The junior senator from Maryland, Michael Campbell, has accepted our invitation to join in this debate. Senator Campbell, how would you respond to Mr Goss’s analogy?’

Karen smiled again as she sipped at her coffee. The Goss camp must be pissed off to see Campbell come to Everhardt’s rescue. Campbell was a good speaker and a good debater.

‘I agree with Dan Everhardt,’ Campbell said. ‘I think Mr Goss’s analogy is faulty.’ The contrast between Campbell’s handsome face and Goss’s jowly middle-aged countenance was immediate. So was the contrast between Goss’s angry gaze and the reflective, almost tender eyes of the young senator.

‘I do agree,’ Campbell said, ‘that there are mad dogs in the world, but I think that our system of laws and of international covenants is an instrument designed precisely to fight those enemies. Let me put it this way: when a rancher’s property is threatened by wolves he sits down with his fellow ranchers and they discuss together what must be done to control the wolf population and to protect their collective properties. By working together they solve the problem. No one rancher, by simply charging out onto the prairie with his rifle, can solve a problem that concerns everyone.’

The force of this argument made itself felt. Campbell, despite his youth, had been able to articulate the mature, wider view that was needed to combat Colin Goss’s bloodthirsty metaphor.

Colin Goss looked at Michael Campbell with well-concealed dislike.

‘And what happens,’ Goss asked, ‘if the rancher and his friends can’t agree on precisely what should be done to fight the wolves? What if the larger ranchers and the smaller ones don’t see eye to eye on the matter? What if their negotiations drag on for months or years? How many sheep must be lost before something positive is done to stop the wolves?’

This was an undisguised allusion to the Bilateral Agreement of last year, which followed a summit conference that included Israel, the United States, and leaders of the major Arab nations. That agreement had promised a united front against terrorism. But the terms of the agreement were so vague that in its final form it was hopelessly watered down.

Nine hundred students and teachers aboard the Crescent Queen were bombed into vapor exactly six months after the signing of the Bilateral Agreement.

Dan Everhardt had no answer to this. Michael Campbell, though, seemed to have anticipated the question.

‘Again I don’t think the analogy is quite right,’ he said. ‘The purpose of collective cooperation among the ranchers is to use every appropriate method, including deadly force, to stop the wolves that are killing the sheep. I’m sure Mr Goss remembers that it was a collective effort by a coalition of countries that forced Saddam Hussein to withdraw from Kuwait. The campaign in Afghanistan that defeated the Taliban was also an international effort.’

‘I agree with Senator Campbell,’ threw in Dan Everhardt. ‘We can’t use vigilante tactics to fight terrorism. It’s the civilized world we’re trying to protect. We have to go about it in a civilized way.’

‘There’s one more thing I’d like to say,’ Michael Campbell said. ‘Many of my ancestors were Irish. What happens if you are attacked by a terrorist group, and you fight fire with fire, bombing one of their schools for every one of your own schools that is bombed? Assassinating one of their leaders for every leader of your own who is assassinated? You get Northern Ireland. Is that what we want for our children and our children’s children? There has to be a better way.’

‘Smart,’ Karen said aloud. Campbell was modest, he deferred to older and more established politicians. But he had a knack for putting the case in such a way that ordinary people could understand it.

In the last couple of months the administration had discovered Campbell as a powerful weapon against the strident Goss forces. Campbell was too young to be identified with the late-twentieth-century policies that had failed to control terrorism. He was handsome, well spoken, and – most important of all – a living embodiment of great physical courage. As a teenager he had developed a serious curvature of the spine that required a lengthy hospitalization. As part of his rehabilitation he took up competitive swimming and became an all-American at Harvard. A second operation became necessary in his junior year, and he came back from it to win two gold medals at the Olympics as a first-year law student at Columbia.

Campbell’s political career had derived immediate momentum from his Olympic triumphs and the pain he had overcome. He won his Senate seat from Maryland in a landslide. He was admired by men for his courage and coveted by women for his handsome looks. Voters of both sexes admired his beautiful wife, whose face appeared every month on the cover of Vogue or Cosmopolitan or Redbook.

Karen yawned and took a bigger swallow of the sour-tasting coffee. She had to admit that Campbell was a handsome man. The body that had made him famous as an Olympic athlete was still hard and attractive. He had a clear, youthful complexion that went well with his crisp dark hair. The combination of his youth and his arguments for moderation was powerful.

On the split screen Colin Goss seemed aware of this. He was looking at Michael with a condescending smile. His personal dislike of Campbell was well known. He considered Campbell an ambitious punk, wet behind the ears where the issues were concerned, a matinee idol trying to make a career out of his looks and charm. Yet he realized that Campbell was now a dangerous enemy, politically speaking.

Mercifully Karen’s three Advil were beginning to work. She got up, poured another cup of coffee, and headed for the shower. Leaving the coffee on top of the toilet where she could reach it, she stood for a long time under the steaming water. Then she soaped herself, washed her hair, and turned the water much colder for a final wake-up rinse.

She hung the towel on the rack and walked naked into the bedroom. As she was opening her underwear drawer to locate a pair of panties, something on the TV screen stopped her.

Washington Today had been interrupted for a special report. On the screen was a live image of a roadblock surrounded by empty Iowa farm fields, along with a reporter interviewing a worried-looking public health officer.

‘We’re still trying to assess the situation,’ the public health man said. ‘We know that there are victims in several communities in this part of the state, but we still don’t know how many. We’re evacuating them as we locate them.’

The reporter asked, ‘Sir, can you comment on the rumors that the mystery illness leaves its victims frozen like statues in the position they were in when it struck?’

‘I don’t know that it’s a “mystery illness,”’the man replied. ‘We’re still assessing it, as I said. It’s true that the onset seems to be sudden, but I can’t really say any more at the present time.’

More questions were shouted at the official as the camera cut away to video, apparently of victims of the disease. A man was shown slumped behind the wheel of a semi trailer on a frozen interstate highway. A school bus was shown stopped at an odd angle in the middle of a rural intersection, the expressionless faces of children visible behind the windows. A helicopter shot showed a skating rink adjacent to a high school or middle school. Skaters lay in unlikely postures on the ice, some face down, others in a sort of fetal position.

Karen stood gazing at the screen, the panties still in her hand. Goose bumps started on her arms. She frowned.

‘Mystery illness,’ she said aloud.




3


Washington

November 16



An hour after the Washington Today broadcast, Vice President Dan Everhardt was in his EOB office, already laboring under a mountain of work.

It was a beautiful day outside. The Washington Monument thrust boldly into a sunny sky while the last of the fall colors daubed the trees along the Mall. A perfect Washington day, cool and crisp. The kind of day that DC natives dreamed about throughout the steam bath of summer.

This was football weather. It brought back pleasant memories of college games in which Dan had tested his strength against some of the toughest linemen alive.

Had he been looking out the window, he might have seen Karen Embry’s little Honda pass by on 17th Street. Karen was on her way to the Library of Congress. She had some medical research to do, and not much time to do it in.

But Dan Everhardt was looking at the list of appointments on his computer screen. The list was long. It was going to be a tiring day.

The phone on Dan’s desk rang. His secretary said the president was on the line. Hurriedly Dan sat down and pushed line two.

‘Mr President. Glad to hear from you.’

‘Danny, how are you?’

‘Fine, Mr President.’

‘I’m just calling to congratulate you on your performance on Washington Today. We all liked what we heard.’ The president’s voice had its usual composite tone, at once caressing and demanding. He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted from political men without browbeating them.

‘Thank you, Mr President. I’m glad Mike Campbell was there,’ Dan replied. ‘In all honesty, I’m not a genius at thinking on my feet. That sheep ranch bit of Goss’s had me thrown. But Mike jumped in and bailed me out.’

‘Michael is a good boy,’ the president said. ‘He’s bright, and he has the right instincts. I told him how much we appreciate his help. He says he’ll go anywhere for us.’

‘I’m glad,’ Dan Everhardt said. ‘We might need him. Have you seen the polls today, Mr President?’

‘Let me worry about the polls, Danny.’

The president’s reassurance was sincerely meant, but the fact remained that in the latest opinion polls the public’s approval of the administration was at an all-time low. Nearly fifty percent of registered voters told pollsters that if a special election for president were held today they would cast their votes for Colin Goss.

‘Frankly, Mr President, I’m worried that I didn’t do a good enough job,’ Dan said. ‘If it hadn’t been for Mike I would have looked like an idiot.’

‘You did fine, Danny. The choice before the people is clear. At the moment they’re expressing their worries about the future by flirting with Goss. But they’ll never take that into a voting booth. All we have to do is sit tight and keep doing our job.’

‘I hope you’re right, Mr President.’

They said good-bye, and Dan Everhardt let out the sigh of relief that had been trapped in his lungs throughout the conversation. Had he heard a hint of impatience in the president’s reassurances? The thought made sweat stand out on his palm as he replaced the receiver. No matter how ingratiating his manner, the president was still the president. His tolerance for malingerers was zero. Everyone knew that.

For a moment Dan sat thinking about Colin Goss. Not since McCarthy had an extremist of the Right worn so hateful a mantle. Dan Everhardt had done a senior thesis on Hitler at Rutgers. There were obvious parallels between Hitler’s anti-Semitism in Mein Kampf and Goss’s speeches about terrorism. The megalomania, the paranoia. The caricature of the opponent as a subhuman cancer cell eating away at the heart of the civilized world.

Obviously it appealed to something in the psyche of the voters. Since the Crescent Queen Americans were lining up by the thousands to hear Goss’s speeches, and writing letters to the editor of their local paper to say that he was the man to ‘save the country.’

To inflame the public further Goss had recently begun placing ‘public service’ ads in major newspapers and magazines, stressing the theme that it was ‘Time to Fight Back’ or ‘Time for a Change.’ Criticized by journalists and even advertisers for electioneering on behalf of himself at a painful time, Goss responded by placing some of the ads on television. It was not unusual these days to see commercials on cable and network stations featuring Goss, a fatherly expression on his face, talking about the ‘crisis’ America faced and the need for Americans to ‘make the tough choices’ at this critical time. Several of the ads showed Goss before a back-projection view of the Crescent Queen explosion.

Those who tried to keep the ads off the air were frustrated by Goss attorneys who cited their client’s right to free speech. The advertising managers of the television networks were loath to say no to Goss’s money, especially when the public seemed to be responding so positively to the ads.

This was going to be a tough battle, Dan Everhardt realized. Goss was throwing everything he had into the effort to force the president out of office. The political situation was meeting Goss halfway. People’s fear of another nuclear attack, possibly on American soil, was greater every day. The status quo was a continual state of terror. More and more voters wanted a change at any price.

Dan was glad Michael Campbell was on board. Mike was hugely popular in his own right, and every word he said in the media got listened to.

Michael would probably run for president himself eventually. His natural ability, combined with his good looks and the huge profile brought by his Olympic victories, would make him a strong candidate for the White House. His wife’s beauty didn’t hurt, either. The only slight negative was their childlessness. But no doubt in the next few years that problem would be solved.

In the interim, Dan Everhardt was vice president of the United States. He had no presidential ambitions for himself. He was loyal to the president and determined to help him stay in office. In this tempestuous time the country needed a sane, wise leader more than ever.

Dan Everhardt looked at his watch. Twenty minutes remained before his conference call with the majority leader.

He stood up and stretched. His back gave him a twinge, a reminder of his football days. He also had a trick knee, the result of surgery on the anterior cruciate ligament. But mostly he felt tired. The stress he had been under recently was taking its toll.

He reached for the intercom.

‘Janice?’

‘Yes, sir?’

‘I’m going to take a quick shower. Take messages for fifteen minutes, will you?’

‘Certainly, sir. Did you want to return Senator Buerstin’s call?’

‘After I get out.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Dan Everhardt noticed himself in the mirror as he moved toward the bathroom. His bulk was beginning to sag, he noticed with some displeasure. The heavy-plated lineman’s armor was taking on the look of a middle-aged man’s spare tire. He wished he could find more time for workouts. But these days so many things kept pressing in on him. One less martini at night would help too – but that was not an option either. His nerves were strung too tight. Things hadn’t been going all that well with his wife. They hadn’t really talked in a long time. As for lovemaking, that was a sore point.

He went into the bathroom and peeled off his clothes. He would put on a fresh shirt after his shower, as always. He sweated a lot.

He draped his jacket over the hanger that hung from the hook on the wall. He threw the shirt into the little hamper, then took off his pants and folded them. He turned on the shower, waited for the water to warm, and got in. A wave of sudden weakness stole through him. He worried briefly about his heart. He was over fifty now, and not in the best of shape.

He felt empty. He thought of Pam, lying in bed when he said good night to her last night. She had looked so lonely. He wanted to reach out to her. But so much water had run under the bridge. Like the water ceaselessly disappearing down this drain, even as it pounded down on him from above. All of life, slipping through our fingers, he thought. Nothing permanent.

He recalled the graduation speech he had given at Rutgers last year. He had had that thought at the time – ‘Nothing is permanent’ – but he had not had the heart to express it to all those fresh-faced graduates. They would find it out in time. Why spoil their happy years by bringing it up now? Better to be gentle.

Depressed thoughts like these did not come naturally to Dan, who was an optimist by temperament. But just at this moment they seemed cogent and inescapable. The whole world was like a house of cards, ready to crumble at the slightest touch.

A house of cards … He was thinking of these words when a greater weakness came over him. The soap fell to the floor of the shower with a splat. He made to bend down toward it, but his arm didn’t move.

Something was wrong. He had sensed it a moment ago, perhaps even earlier. But he had ignored it, decided it was nothing. And that was the opening it had come through – his own obliviousness.

His body seized up, frozen like an engine thrown into reverse at full throttle. The room was yellow, then red. A sound like screeching trumpets was in his ears. He didn’t even try to reach for the walls. He sought only to get out the cry that would bring help. But his throat was locked tight, nothing would come out.

Pam. It was the last word in his mind, but it never came near his lips.

He sagged against the wall of the shower. That was where he would have remained, had it not been for the slippery soap under his feet. He fell to the tiled floor with a crash, his bulk forcing the shower door open. His head emerged from the cubicle, water dripping from his hair onto the floor. The bar of soap lay innocently on the drain.

His hands were clenched at his sides. His eyes were wide open. He looked as though he were preoccupied by something beyond this water-soaked room, something terribly urgent and transcendently important.

He tried to make himself move. It was impossible. He lay staring straight ahead, as he would be when they found him.




4


Hamilton, Virginia, on the Chesapeake Bay

November 16, 6 P.M.



Judd Campbell, having just finished watching his videotape of Washington Today for the third time, rewound the tape on his VCR and began the program all over again. He called out to his daughter, ‘Ingrid, get me a Guinness, will you?’

‘Another one?’ Ingrid, who watched her father’s intake of alcohol and tobacco like a hawk, gave her usual protest.

‘For Christ’s sake, daughter, no sermons. Just get it!’

Judd used the remote to speed through the early exchanges between Dan Everhardt and his adversaries. He stopped when Michael’s face came on the screen. Judd’s eyes, a startling blue-green with touches of gold deep in the iris, focused on his younger son with a combination of great tenderness and stern judgment. Michael was the bearer of the Campbell name and of his father’s torch.

Outside the window loomed the Chesapeake Bay, gray and choppy under a momentary cloud cover. One brave soul was out there on a sailboat. Judd did not look at him.

Behind him loomed the house, its sixteen rooms sprawling under high ceilings, the bedrooms placed along the upstairs front with spectacular views of the Bay. Judd had bought it as a ‘summer cottage’ when he was based in Baltimore, and had fallen in love with the place and moved in permanently. His children loved the beach, and Judd himself was a dedicated sailor and fisherman. His wife had died here. He still kept her bedroom exactly as she had had it when she was alive.

His cardiologists would no longer allow him to sail a small boat alone, but he went out often on his yacht, the Margery, both to sail and to fish. He liked to conduct business meetings aboard the boat, and didn’t care if the colleagues who attended got seasick. He felt more lucid on the water, more free of the fetters of dry land.

Judd Campbell was a self-made man, and liked people to know it. He came from an impoverished Scotch-Irish background and had made his mark on the business world as a textile manufacturer and importer before he was thirty. His patchwork empire of factories grew into a conglomerate that included everything from hotels to telephone companies. Though not a modern man by temperament, Judd saw the computer revolution coming in the 1980s and invested millions in the PC and software markets. By age fifty-five he was an institution in American business.

But he was hardly a household name. And now that age and chronic heart trouble had forced him to retire, he knew he never would be.

It was Susan who brought him the glass of dark ale. She and Michael were having dinner here tonight. Susan had arrived first, an hour ago, and was helping Ingrid in the kitchen. Michael was due before the meal was served.

‘Ah, here’s a face I can live with,’ said Judd. ‘Thanks, sweetie.’

‘Ingrid is still muttering about your ration.’ Susan smiled.

‘Let her mutter. Come here, look at your husband.’ Judd gestured to the TV screen on which Michael’s handsome face was shown.

‘I’ve seen him before.’ Susan patted her father-in-law’s shoulder. ‘Have to get back to work. How many times have you watched that thing?’

‘Never mind.’ Judd went back to his TV as Susan left the room.

Judd Campbell did not try to disguise the special feeling he had for Michael. Even as a toddler Michael had shown a kind of energy and strength that his two older siblings lacked. Judd had taken the child to his heart, teaching him to excel in everything he did. When Michael was learning to swim, to ride a bike, to throw a ball and swing a bat, Judd had repeated familiar anthems in his little ear.

‘Excellence without victory is like frosting without a cake.’

‘The man who finishes second is not a man. He is only a footnote.’

And of course the legendary Vince Lombardi maxim. Winning isn’t everything. It’s the only thing. Judd took this as holy writ, and made sure his son heard it often.

When the boy was very small he did not seem to understand these injunctions. But as he grew older, their deeper effect made itself felt. He attained success in everything he did. Though slight of build he was a natural and graceful athlete, a student to whom high grades seemed to come naturally, a handsome young boy to whom popularity came without being sought.

When Michael became a national hero at the tender age of twenty-three for his courageous performance in the Olympics, Judd knew that the door of opportunity was open for the Campbells. Michael had all the equipment needed to make a mark on the world in a way his father had not. Michael had intelligence, ambition, guts, and – the one quality Judd lacked – charm.

For a dozen years Judd had supported his favorite son in his political career with money, contacts, and advice. They made a strong combination. Michael’s political rise had been meteoric. Unlike Judd, though, Michael did not need to make the pursuit of success a grim crusade. He had no chip on his shoulder, like the one Judd had inherited from his impoverished immigrant childhood. Instead he had a talent for diplomacy that made him many friends among political men, including those who opposed his party and his views.

It was this talent that allowed him to take in his father’s overbearing demands without being offended by them. He seemed to understand the vicarious commitment of Judd, a profoundly unsatisfied man, to Michael’s own career. He went from achievement to achievement easily, almost tenderly, as though he wanted to give his father a gift he knew Judd needed with all his heart.

Michael was the only Campbell child to possess this instinctive ability to ‘handle’ Judd. Stewart, his older brother, had attained a life of his own only at the price of leaving the family and cutting off all contact with his father. Temperamentally unsuited to the world of ambition that Judd lived for, Stewart had locked horns with Judd as a teenager. After his mother’s death their conflict had escalated into open war. Stewart stayed away after college, paid his own way through graduate school, and got a doctorate in history. Today he was a professor at Johns Hopkins. Though he lived only forty miles from Judd, he had not visited in fifteen years.

Ingrid, less willful, had remained at home, renouncing a husband and children of her own in order to care for Judd in his waning years. She was Judd’s emotional slave, though she affected the role of stern caregiver as she rationed his intake of alcohol and fought against his addiction to cigars. She also devoted herself to Michael and to Susan, whom she treated like an adored younger sister.

Judd had been ruthless as a businessman, walking over those who stood in his way and browbeating even his most loyal employees. His great downfall had been his tendency to do the same in his family. It had lost him Stewart’s love, and had reduced Ingrid to a shadow of what she might have become. But somehow Michael had survived and even flourished under his father’s stern aegis.

The only untoward incident in Michael’s otherwise normal childhood was the spinal curvature that began to afflict him in his mid-teens, a severe scoliosis that threatened more than his youthful athletic career – it actually threatened his ability to lead a normal life.

But it was precisely this challenge that brought out the killer instinct in Michael, making him into an all-American swimmer and then an Olympic champion. As an additional silver lining, it was during his convalescence after the second surgery that he began courting Susan Bellinger, a heartbreakingly pretty Wellesley freshman who came from a broken home and was working her way through college as a model.

Susan helped him recover from the surgery and watched in wonder as he went back to swimming and slowly, relentlessly pushed himself back into Olympic form. She fell in love with Michael as a weak, pain-ridden young stranger about whom she knew next to nothing. Three years later she was married to him as a celebrity. And she herself, as his attractive young wife, soon became a celebrity too.

A brilliant law student, Michael became editor of the Law Review and joined a prestigious Baltimore law firm upon his graduation. He ran for the House of Representatives four years later, and was elected to the US Senate before he reached the age of thirty. The leaders of his party quickly identified him as a rising star and even a potential standard bearer. Michael’s future looked every bit as stellar as his past.

Judd Campbell got up from his chair and stood before the TV with the remote in his hand. Judd was tall, at least six three in his stockinged feet. His hair was thinning now, with only a few touches of the old russet among the gray. His emerging forehead, high and strong, made him look as vibrant as ever. Not a few friends and colleagues had remarked over the years on his resemblance to the actor Clint Eastwood. He was a handsome man. Chronic heart disease had done nothing to dim his sex appeal.

He froze the image of Michael long enough to call into the kitchen, ‘Susie, would you bring me a bowl of peanuts?’ Susan appeared at the doorway. ‘What, Dad?’

‘Peanuts,’ Judd repeated. ‘Unsalted peanuts, for an old man.’

‘Coming up.’ She moved away along the hall. Judd’s smile lingered as he heard her light steps.

Judd loved Susan more than any woman except his late wife. When Michael had first brought her home to him – Michael still on crutches at that time, and Susan more a confidante than a love – Judd had taken to her immediately. Her delicacy reminded him of Margery. Under her sunny blond looks there was a ruminative, somewhat depressive streak that made him want to protect her. And also a sweet, maternal quality that made her an ideal nurse for Michael during the most painful times.

And there was her extraordinary beauty, hardly a thing to go unnoticed by a red-blooded man like Judd. He admired her looks, and he also cannily reflected that she would be an ideal mate for Michael in his political career.

The greatest tragedy to befall the Campbell family had come when Margery, Judd’s doting wife of twenty-six years, committed suicide. No one had seen it coming. No one had thought Margery capable of such an act. Michael was seventeen at the time, Stewart twenty-four, Ingrid twenty-two.

The loss had been devastating. It was probably the real cause of the rift between Stewart and his father, though the pretext was Stewart’s determination to follow an academic career. It also brought on Judd’s first serious heart attack. And it was certainly the proximate cause of Ingrid’s spin-sterhood, for Ingrid began devoting herself to her father’s needs after he became a widower.

Judd never got over the loss of Margery. It was not until Susan came along that he started to live again. True, he was living through Susan and Michael, and Michael’s career. He sensed this obscurely, but buried the knowledge under his ambition for Michael and his tenderness toward Susan.

Susan went into the kitchen, where Ingrid had interrupted her work to watch a news report on the little TV that was kept on the counter.

‘Ing?’ Susan asked. ‘Where are Dad’s peanuts?’

Ingrid didn’t answer. Susan moved to her side and looked at the little screen. A reporter was shivering against the background of a frozen farm field while the graphic ‘Mystery Disease’ was shown.

‘The public health people say they’re trying to get the situation under control,’ the reporter said. ‘That means hospitalizing all the victims, probably under quarantine, and cordoning off the affected areas. None of the officials would comment on what the disease is. Sources have told us it seems to be a genuine mystery.’

‘What’s going on?’ Susan asked.

‘Some sort of epidemic.’ Ingrid turned to face Susan. ‘Probably the flu. The media are hyping it as usual. Where’s Dad?’

‘Watching his tape of Michael. He wants peanuts.’

‘No way. I’ll handle this.’

As Ingrid was moving toward the living room Susan heard the front door open. Her eyes lit up as she went to greet Michael. He gave her a long hug and kiss.

‘Where’s Dad?’

‘Watching you on TV.’

‘Again? Doesn’t he ever get enough?’

She watched him hang his coat in the closet. He had changed clothes at his office, and wore slacks and a light sweater. A breath of the outside air had come in with him, and his cheeks were cool against her lips.

‘I talked to Stew today,’ he said.

‘How is he?’ Susan asked.

‘Great,’ Michael said. ‘He sends you his love.’ He was hanging back, not moving toward his father’s den, because he could not let Judd hear him mention the name of his older brother in the house.

‘Did he see you on TV?’ Susan asked.

Michael nodded.

‘Was he favorably impressed?’ she asked.

‘If he wasn’t, he probably wouldn’t have told me.’

As the oldest of the Campbell children Stewart commanded Michael’s respect. Stewart was at the opposite end of the political spectrum from his father. If Judd was a stern judge of Michael’s ambition, Stewart was the judge of his integrity. Stewart hated politicians but made an exception for Michael, whom he considered a huge cut above the rest in character and brains.

Susan and Michael exchanged a brief look. They were both sad that Stewart could not be here tonight. Even though Michael’s career was a common link between Judd and Stewart, the rift between the two was too deep for Michael to bridge.

‘Hey, Ing,’ Michael greeted his sister, hugging her around her broad shoulders.

‘Hey to you, big shot.’ Ingrid smiled. ‘Nice work today.’

As Susan watched, Michael went to the door of the den and looked in at his father. Judd had not heard Michael’s arrival and was glued to the TV, watching his son’s image. Michael went forward and, with an odd gentleness, put his arm around his father and kissed his cheek.

‘Ah. Here you are.’ Relief joined with an almost painful devotion in the father’s voice as he held Michael’s arm. Strangely, Judd did not turn his eyes away from the TV. He remained focused on the abstract image of his son while holding Michael’s hand to keep him from getting away. Susan dared to reflect that this schizoid intimacy was part and parcel of Judd’s love for his son.

Michael glanced back at Susan with an understanding smile, as though to say, ‘You know what Dad is like.’ Nodding, Susan turned away.

In the kitchen Ingrid was whipping the potatoes. The news report on the situation in Iowa was over, eclipsed by a story about violence in the Middle East.

‘Sweetie,’ Ingrid said to Susan, ‘would you finish this for me while I get the roast out?’

The phone rang. Since both women were busy Michael answered it. His face clouded as he listened to the caller.

‘When did this happen?’

Susan turned to look at him. She knew that voice. It meant something serious.

‘Where is he now?’ Michael said into the phone.

Through the dining room Susan could see Judd, who was still absorbed in his videotape. Michael hung up the phone.

‘What’s the matter?’ Susan asked.

‘Danny Everhardt,’ Michael said. ‘He was taken sick late this morning. They took him to Walter Reed.’

‘Sick in what way?’ Susan asked.

‘Something strange,’ Michael said. ‘He can’t move, can’t talk. His secretary found him on the floor of the bathroom, half in and half out of the shower. He hasn’t said a word since.’

Susan looked at Michael. The TV still murmured in the kitchen. Outside the house a gull shrieked, once, and was gone over the waves.




5


Walter Reed Army Medical Center

Gaithersburg, Maryland

8 P.M.



Dan Everhardt was discovered by his secretary ten minutes after the onset of his illness. Alarmed by his failure to emerge from the still-running shower, she opened the door and saw him lying under the spattering water, his eyes still open.

Within the hour the vice president was taken to Walter Reed, where he was placed under observation in the intensive care unit. His vital signs were normal, but he continued to display symptoms of a massive disturbance of function whose precise characteristics were difficult to pin down.

The night of his admission his primary physician received a visit from a Secret Service agent named Joseph Kraig.

‘Dr Isaacson,’ Kraig said, shaking the physician’s hand. ‘Thank you for making time to see me.’

‘We received a call from the White House asking us to cooperate with you in every way possible,’ the doctor said, not looking very happy about Kraig’s presence. ‘It seemed only reasonable to go along.’

The doctor studied Kraig, who was a deceptively ordinary-looking man in a dark suit. Kraig looked to be in his late thirties, prematurely gray at the temples, with shoulders and arms that bespoke good physical conditioning. He had quiet eyes whose neutral expression suggested a coiled inner force kept carefully hidden. Something about him was frightening; something else was reassuring. It was hard to tell the difference.

‘What can you tell me about the vice president?’ Kraig asked.

‘Well,’ said the doctor, ‘it’s very ambiguous. At first we suspected a stroke. There is a rather dramatic impairment of mental function. But the tests we’ve done so far – EKG and so forth – don’t indicate any circulatory problem. I’m leaning toward the functional, but I’m far from sure.’

‘Functional?’ Kraig asked.

‘By that I mean a mental or emotional disturbance without a physical basis,’ the doctor said. ‘Of course, it’s too soon to say.’

‘Could you show me?’ Kraig asked.

‘I’d rather not,’ the doctor said. ‘It wouldn’t be appropriate for anyone outside the family …’

‘Has the family seen him?’ Kraig asked.

‘Only his wife. She didn’t think it would be good for the children to —’

Agent Kraig moved closer to the doctor and spoke in a low voice.

‘I understand your concerns, Doctor. But it is important that I get a clear view of the situation right away. Would you like me to have the head of the Secret Service call you?’

The doctor sighed. ‘No, let’s get it over with. Let me see if he’s awake first.’

The doctor left Kraig to wait in the corridor and disappeared into the hospital room. After a couple of minutes he emerged.

‘Come on in.’

Kraig followed the doctor into the room. Vice President Everhardt was propped up in the hospital bed, looking at the television screen on the ceiling. Not for the first time Kraig noticed the vice president’s size. He had the bulk of a football player.

‘Mr Vice President, I’d like you to meet someone,’ Dr Isaacson said. ‘This is Agent Kraig. He’s with the Secret Service.’

Everhardt looked at Kraig. There was something wrong with the expression in his eyes. Kraig could not put it into words, but the gaze didn’t seem lucid. The eyes seemed elsewhere.

‘That’s Kraig with a ‘K,’ Mr Vice President,’ Kraig said, moving forward to extend a hand.

Everhardt ignored the outstretched hand. He kept looking at Kraig for a few seconds, then looked back at the TV screen, on which an old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie was playing.

‘You can call me Joe if you like,’ Kraig said. ‘Everybody does.’

Everhardt gave no sign of having heard the remark.

‘Mr Vice President,’ said the doctor, ‘I’d like to show Agent Kraig a couple of the things we were trying to do before. If that’s all right with you.’

Everhardt looked at the TV in silence.

‘Just to make sure there’s no mistake,’ the doctor said, ‘is your full name Daniel James Everhardt?’

No response.

The doctor took one of Everhardt’s hands. Everhardt looked down at his hand.

‘Can you just give my hand one firm squeeze?’ the doctor asked.

Everhardt stared at the clasped hands, but did not obey the command. At length he looked back up at the TV, leaving his hand in the doctor’s.

‘All right, Mr Vice President. Can you just look from the TV to Agent Kraig, and then back at the TV?’

There was no response.

The doctor gave Kraig a significant look. Then he pushed the call button on the phone beside the bed. A moment later a nurse appeared.

‘Yes, Doctor?’ she asked.

Everhardt looked at the nurse. His hand remained in the doctor’s.

‘Nothing, Nurse. My mistake,’ said the doctor.

The nurse left the room.

‘Mr Vice President, can you look at me?’ the doctor asked.

Everhardt, whose eyes had returned to the TV screen, did not react to the question.

The doctor escorted Kraig from the room.

‘You saw the essentials,’ he said.

‘He seems aware of his surroundings,’ Kraig said.

‘He is. His reflexes are normal. He reacts to new sights, to sounds. But he can’t do anything on command,’ the doctor said. ‘Nothing at all. He can look at the nurse when she walks in, but he can’t do it if I tell him to look at her.’

‘Did he walk in here under his own power?’ Kraig asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘When they found him he was immobile. Rigid. He seemed to resist any attempt to move him.’

‘What about language?’ Kraig asked.

‘He hasn’t said a single word since they brought him in. He can’t repeat a word, or even a sound. He’s groaned a couple of times, but he hasn’t spoken. We don’t know if he can speak.’

Kraig was perplexed. ‘I’m not a doctor,’ he said, ‘but this seems very strange.’

‘It is very strange,’ the doctor said. ‘To have a paralysis of function this massive while all the vital signs are normal, and while he can obviously see and hear and react, is not something I’ve ever seen.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Kraig asked.

‘Keep him under observation. Run some more tests. Some more blood studies to look for infection or a metabolic disorder. Some more sophisticated neurological studies. An EEG and skull X-ray to rule out an atypical seizure disorder or brain tumor. Maybe an MRI.’

The doctor gave Kraig a look. ‘And, I think, a complete psychiatric workup with a thorough history.’

‘Why psychiatric?’

‘Well, his condition has some features of catatonic schizophrenia or certain types of conversion disorders. We’ll also have to rule out a factitious disorder.’

‘What’s that?’

‘The layman would call it faking,’ the doctor said. ‘I’d prefer to call it a kind of stress-related dysfunction. As you know, the vice president is under considerable stress at the moment. As is the president.’

‘You mean the calls for a special election?’ Kraig asked.

‘There could be a lot of ambivalence about a thing like that,’ the doctor said. ‘Especially in these troubled times.’

‘I see what you mean.’ Kraig knew that Dan Everhardt was a career legislator who probably would never have dreamed of running for high executive office if the president had not chosen him as his running mate five years ago. Now that the president was under attack, Dan Everhardt had to absorb the same blows from the media and from hostile forces in Congress.

‘You’re saying that he has a strong motive to be sick,’ Kraig offered. ‘Because it would get him off the hook politically.’

‘That’s correct,’ the doctor said. ‘Not that it’s a conscious decision on his part. The symptoms wouldn’t be this convincing if it was.’

There was a silence. The doctor started to say something, but stopped himself.

‘Yes, Doctor?’ Kraig asked.

‘Did you hear about that strange epidemic out in Iowa?’ the doctor asked.

‘You mean the people who can’t talk?’

‘Yes. It’s just a hunch on my part, but the vice president’s symptoms remind me of the reports about those people. I think it would be worth checking out.’

‘I’ll take care of it,’ Kraig said, making a note on a small spiral pad.

The doctor looked worried. ‘If this thing wasn’t confined … If it was a communicable disease of some sort …’

‘Yes?’ Kraig raised an eyebrow.

‘We wouldn’t know how to combat it,’ the doctor said. ‘We wouldn’t have a clue.’

Kraig looked at him in silence.

‘Of course, that’s very unlikely,’ the doctor went on. ‘What happened in Iowa is probably some kind of mass hysteria.’

‘Probably?’ Kraig asked.

‘Probably,’ the physician concluded. ‘In any case, we’ll work with what we have.’

‘Thank you for seeing me, Doctor.’

‘The hospital administrator tells me the media are waiting for a statement,’ the doctor said. ‘I waited to hear from you. From the government, I mean.’

‘I appreciate it. We can draft something together,’ Kraig said.



An hour later Joseph Kraig stood beside the hospital spokesman, an administrator named Dr Cobb, as he faced a large group of reporters outside the main hospital entrance. Video cameras were running, the bright lights making Kraig squint.

‘Dr Cobb, how is the vice president?’ The question came from several directions at once.

‘The vice president is well,’ Dr Cobb said. ‘We’ve been running a lot of tests today, and the patient is understandably tired. The tests will continue tomorrow.’

‘What is the current diagnosis, Doctor?’ Again several voices shouted this at once.

‘We’re not prepared to make a definitive diagnosis until a full battery of tests has been run.’

Every word so far, Kraig reflected, had been approved by the White House. This was no time for ad-libbing. Kraig’s eyes scanned the mob of reporters and video men. They looked like jackals closing in for the kill. The microphones on their poles were like the proboscises of oversized insects who fed on the pain of humans.

‘Doctor, is there any truth to the rumor that Vice President Everhardt’s condition has baffled your physicians?’

The question was asked by a young female reporter with dark hair, a woman Kraig did not remember seeing before.

‘No truth,’ Dr Cobb said.

‘Doctor, is it true that the vice president is mentally incapacitated?’

‘Not true,’ Cobb answered with some irritation.

‘Doctor, is there truth to the story that the vice president’s illness is connected in some way to the epidemic in Iowa?’

The questions were coming from the same reporter, who outdid even her Washington peers in rapid-fire attack.

‘Not at all,’ Cobb said.

To Kraig’s surprise, the next question was addressed to him.

‘Agent Kraig, are you concerned about protecting the health of other federal officials?’

Kraig narrowed his eyes at the reporter. Who was this hound, anyway?

‘It’s our job to protect the president and those who work alongside him,’ he said. ‘I don’t see how the vice president’s condition affects that.’

‘Does Vice President Everhardt’s incapacitation make you worry about the safety of other government officials?’

‘I wouldn’t call it incapacitation,’ Kraig said.

‘Have you interviewed the vice president yourself, Agent Kraig?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘And how did you find him?’

‘I have nothing to add to what Dr Cobb has told you.’

‘Agent Kraig, isn’t it true that Vice President Everhardt hasn’t said a single word since he became ill?’ The reporter’s dark eyes seemed to bore into Kraig.

Kraig frowned. He had had enough. ‘I repeat, I have nothing to add to what Dr Cobb has told you.’

Karen Embry nodded with a politeness tinged by lingering suspicion. She looked crisp and professional in her dark suit and blouse. Her hair had been brushed with care, and her makeup accentuated her delicate features. There were a lot of female reporters present, from the wire services and cable stations as well as the local media, but none was quite as attractive as Karen. It would have been hard for an observer to recognize in her the young woman who had dragged herself out of bed at seven o’clock this morning with a crushing hangover. But there was no such observer. Karen made sure that no outsider ever saw her without her professional armor on. And her beauty was part of that armor.

The news conference lasted another twenty minutes, all of them uncomfortable, as Dr Cobb parried questions from dozens of reporters. Finally, citing the late hour, the doctor called a halt to the session.

Grateful to make his escape, Kraig left the hospital and drove back to his office.



Since the attack on the Pentagon of September 11, 2001, many of the major federal agencies had been covertly moving around the city. The Secret Service was presently located in a nondescript office building a block away from HUD, in the shadow of Interstate 395. From the weedy parking lot full of unmarked vehicles no one would have guessed the place was a government facility. Only the name tags the agents and secretaries clipped on as they approached the entrance betrayed the true nature of the operation.

Most of the agents were out, but Kraig’s boss, Ross Agnew, was in. It was Agnew who had gotten Kraig this assignment. They had known each other as trainees twelve years ago. Agnew, a graduate of the University of Virginia and a former FBI agent, was a natural-born administrator and a gifted politician. He was the temperamental opposite of Kraig, a field agent who liked solitude and distrusted authority. But they got along well.

‘How is Everhardt?’ Agnew asked.

‘He didn’t look good to me,’ Kraig said. ‘But I’m not a doctor.’

‘Not good in what way?’

Kraig shook his head. ‘A sort of paralysis,’ he said. ‘He can’t talk, and he can’t obey simple commands. So far they can’t find anything wrong with him physically. If it’s mental, it’s bad mental.’

‘I take it he’s not in any condition to go back to work,’ Agnew said.

‘No way.’ Kraig shook his head.

Agnew thought for a moment.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell the White House. They’re not going to like it. Deep concern at the top level. You know what I mean.’

Kraig nodded. He cared little for politics. If it weren’t for that maniac Colin Goss angling to get into the White House, Kraig would not have cared who occupied the place.

‘Do you think the president will have to appoint another man?’ Agnew asked.

‘If Everhardt goes on this way, I’d say so,’ Kraig replied. ‘He’s incapacitated.’

‘Who do you think it might be?’

‘Search me.’ Kraig sat down.

He thought for a moment before saying, ‘Everhardt’s doctor was wondering about the epidemic in Iowa. There are some symptoms in common.’

‘Really?’ Agnew asked. ‘Which ones?’

‘I’m not sure.’ Kraig frowned. ‘I don’t know that much about Iowa.’

There was a silence.

‘Does the doctor think this might be something communicable?’ Agnew asked.

‘He doesn’t know. He seemed worried by the prospect.’

Kraig sat listening to the muted hum of the traffic on the expressway. He looked at the pictures on Agnew’s walls, most of which showed sailboats or fishing boats on the Chesapeake Bay. Agnew was leaning back in his chair with one leg crossed over the other. His knee stuck up well above the desktop. He was immensely tall, six feet eight or nine, and had once had the misfortune of guarding Chris Webber for three quarters in the NCAA semifinals.

Then he asked, ‘Do you see this changing our drill about the president or the top executive people?’

Agnew raised an eyebrow. ‘Why would it change anything?’

‘I had a reporter ask me that question at Walter Reed,’ Kraig said. ‘It was a strange question, but it had me thinking in the car. What if it were possible to incapacitate a public official intentionally, as a form of terror?’

‘Hmm,’ Agnew mused. ‘The Ipcress File. Is that what you’re thinking of?’

‘Yeah. If you can’t kill a guy, or force him out through scandal, you mess up his mind somehow.’

‘Science fiction,’ Agnew mused. ‘But anything is possible.’

There was a silence.

‘Why don’t you fly out there and see what you can learn?’ Agnew asked.

‘Iowa?’

‘Yeah.’

Kraig nodded. ‘Okay.’

‘But first go home and get a good night’s sleep,’ Agnew said. ‘I have a feeling the next few weeks aren’t going to be fun.’

Kraig gave Agnew a long look. ‘Right,’ he said.

Kraig stood up and left the office.




6


Kraig didn’t get home to his Virginia condominium until after eleven. He was looking forward to a shower and an evening of reading and music.

His profession forced him to read newspapers avidly and to be aware of current events and the trends behind them. He got so sick of the real world after a day of work that he couldn’t bear to watch television at home. He listened to a lot of music – Coltrane and Miles Davis when he was younger, but increasingly Beethoven and Mozart – and read novels. He looked for stories as far removed as possible from this time and place. Mark Twain was a favorite. So were Balzac and Dumas. He liked to immerse himself in the longer Dostoyevsky novels, and sometimes even read Shakespeare.

He had weights in his basement, and always found time to do some bench pressing and curling. He ran in the mornings to keep his legs in shape. Since his divorce he found concentration and work easy, but sleep difficult. In some ways the loneliness of his profession suited him. In other ways he felt empty and rootless, adrift in a life that didn’t really belong to him.

He e-mailed his daughter in Florida every day, and spoke to her on the phone once a week. She was ten now, and very busy with her own life. He spoke to his ex-wife as seldom as possible.

The apartment building loomed before him with its combined aura of home and of homeless-ness. Lights were on in all the units except his own. Sighing, he turned off the car.

There was a girl sitting on the steps. As he drew closer, carrying his briefcase, he recognized the aggressive young reporter from the foyer at Walter Reed.

‘No comment,’ he said. ‘I’m off duty.’

‘My name is Karen Embry,’ she said, getting to her feet and holding out a hand. ‘I don’t want a story.’

Kraig stood looking at her without taking her hand. She was of medium height, maybe five five, but she seemed smaller because she was visibly underweight. The journalist’s typical lean-and-hungry essence was evident in her, but there was something else as well, something downright undernourished and, Kraig thought, sad. She had long dark hair, which she obviously made the most of. Her complexion was fair, her eyes large and dark. She was very pretty, or would have been had she been anything but a reporter.

These impressions kept him from sweeping by her into the condo without a word.

‘If it isn’t a story, what do you want?’ he asked.

‘Just a couple of minutes of conversation,’ she said.

He looked at his watch. ‘It’s been a long day,’ he said.

‘I work long hours,’ she said. ‘My sources tell me that Everhardt is really sick. That there’s no way he’ll be coming back.’

Kraig shrugged. ‘I really couldn’t say. I’m not a doctor, Miss – what did you say your name was?’

‘Embry. Call me Karen.’ Now that his eyes were adjusting to the dim light Kraig saw that there was something unusual about her features. Something European, perhaps – though there was no trace of an accent in her voice.

‘How come I haven’t met you before?’ he asked.

‘I moved down here from Boston fairly recently,’ she said. ‘I’m working freelance. I specialize in public health stories.’

‘That’s nice,’ Kraig said.

There was a silence. The reporter knew Kraig wasn’t going to give her anything she could use. But, like any good journalist, she wanted to establish him as a contact.

‘I heard it was something about the decision-making process,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Everhardt. Something to the effect that he can understand things – some things at least – but can’t make decisions based on what he knows. So he can’t act. He’s paralyzed.’

Kraig turned toward the parking lot, beyond which a sad vista of apartments and two-story office buildings blocked the horizon.

‘No comment,’ he said.

‘I heard the White House is really worried,’ she said. ‘Without Everhardt for the polls, they’re not sure the president can hold off Colin Goss.’

‘I’m not a pollster,’ Kraig said.

She nodded. ‘A lot of people are concerned about the viability of the administration. The voters are terrified of another nuclear attack like the Crescent Queen. Goss has been pulling a lot of strings in Congress. If anything happens to make the president look weaker than he is already, there might be a resolution asking him to resign. This Everhardt thing certainly doesn’t make him look stronger.’

Kraig said nothing. He knew Colin Goss was putting pressure on the administration. Frankly, he thought it would be better for the country if Goss was in that hospital bed instead of Dan Everhardt. Goss was a true menace. In this sense, Kraig did have a political mind.

‘That’s not my department,’ he said.

There was a silence.

‘I heard that some of the doctors think Everhardt’s problem may be functional,’ she said.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Kraig asked.

‘Mental. Emotional. Everhardt has been under a lot of stress recently. Maybe he cracked under the strain.’

Kraig was looking at her face now. There was an odd concentration in her eyes, almost an animal concentration. He wondered for a split second whether she was on something, some sort of upper. But he rejected the idea. She was simply a newshound, ready to knock down any obstacle that stood between her and a story. Her kind didn’t need uppers. The stories themselves were their drug.

‘Everhardt is a good man,’ she said, ‘but he’s not really cut out for the presidential wars. Consider the way Colin Goss had him buffaloed on Washington Today. Maybe the pressure was getting too great for him.’

Kraig cut her off. ‘I don’t have anything for you,’ he said.

‘As I say, I don’t want you to leak anything,’ she said. ‘I just want …’

Kraig gave her a dark smile. ‘What is it you want, Miss Embry?’

‘Call me Karen. Please.’

Kraig was not taken in by her friendliness.

‘What is it you want?’

‘I don’t want to chase windmills,’ she said. ‘I would like to have a contact who can help me stay on the right track. I really don’t want to print things that aren’t true.’ She hesitated. ‘Call it a friend I want,’ she said. ‘And I can be a friend in return.’

Kraig gave her a long look. A tough reporter, wise to every angle an evasive government would try to pull on her. Looking for a scoop, and willing to trade. Trade what?

Something told him not to blow her off completely.

‘Then stop jumping to conclusions,’ he said, ‘and start looking for better sources.’

‘That’s why I’m here.’ That intent look was still in her eyes.

‘I have work to do,’ Kraig said, taking out his keys. ‘See you.’

He went inside and closed the door. The ceiling light in his foyer sent dim rays into the empty apartment. He felt an urge to turn on all the lights in the place and fill it with music, as quickly as possible.

But after hanging up his coat he looked out the window to see if the girl was gone.

She was standing on his steps, looking at the closed front door. She had pretty shoulders under that long hair. She must be cold out there.

He felt an impulse, half sexual and half pure loneliness, to let her in and give her a drink. He hesitated for a long moment. Then he reached for the doorknob. At that instant she started down the steps to the parking lot. She moved quickly, all business, her car keys in her hand. Yet as she opened the car door she looked younger, almost girlish.

Sighing, Kraig turned back to the emptiness of home.




7


November 17



Eighteen hours after she left Joseph Kraig’s apartment Karen Embry stood in a hospital ward in Des Moines, Iowa, staring at a little girl.

The girl’s arms were curled around a ragged teddy bear. Her fingers were frozen against the fur. The creases in her hospital gown remained exactly as they were when it was put on, for she had not moved since they brought her in. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling of the ward, as though the answer to a long-pondered riddle would appear there at any minute.

The ward was crowded. There were no medical facilities in the affected part of the state capable of handling the victims. The majority had been taken by ambulance or National Guard transport to hospitals in Sioux City and Des Moines.

The epidemic that had spread through a dozen towns in five counties now seemed to have stopped. No new victims had been found since the initial outbreak. This fact came as a relief to the public health officials, but did little for the harried medical professionals who were struggling to deal with fifteen hundred gravely sick adults and children.

A cold front was sweeping across the Midwest and the Plains states, bringing wind chills below zero. Local inhabitants were wearing down jackets and parkas they had not expected to need for another month. Visitors, like Karen, found themselves underprotected against the intense cold.

The Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta had sent a team of specialists to investigate the epidemic. Unfortunately for them, there were no unaffected citizens to interview. Every man, woman, and child in each affected town had been struck down by the mystery illness.

Karen learned all this upon her arrival at the university hospital in Des Moines from the CDC official in charge, Mark Hernandez. Though Hernandez was not happy to see Karen, he had been instructed by his superiors that good relations with the press were crucial at this sensitive time.

He helped Karen put on anticontamination gear. ‘It’s almost certainly unnecessary now,’ he said, ‘but we’re still being careful.’ He took her to a quarantined ward lined with beds occupied by immobile, empty-eyed patients of all ages. Overworked nurses were busy feeding and caring for the patients.

It was a disturbing sight. Men, women, and children, still looking healthy and well fed, lying silent in their beds. They looked like film extras hired to play the role of the sick.

Karen was struck by the look in their eyes. They seemed to be hypnotized from within. It was a fixed stare, but not suggestive of dementia. There was something almost visionary about it.

When she remarked on this to Dr Hernandez, the doctor shrugged. ‘It is strange. But so far we haven’t been able to attach any significance to it.’

‘I’m puzzled by the symptoms,’ Karen said. ‘Shouldn’t there be fever or chills or nausea, or something to indicate the internal disorder?’

‘Off the record?’ the doctor asked.

Karen nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘I’m puzzled myself.’ He shook his head. ‘The symptoms make no sense. All the vital signs are normal. The patients seem conscious, but their will seems to be paralyzed. Their power to act, even to feed themselves.’

‘Were any of them able to walk?’ Karen asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘Judging by where we found them, the illness stopped them in their tracks. If they were sitting, they just stayed there. If they were standing, they remained standing until weakness made them keel over. It’s like being struck by lightning. They just froze.’

Karen was thinking of Vice President Everhardt, lying helpless in a bed at Walter Reed. She wondered whether he looked like the patients here.

‘What is your people’s thinking on this?’ she asked.

Hernandez shrugged unhappily. ‘Frankly, we don’t know what to think. We’re concentrating on life support, nutrition, and so forth. We’ve quarantined the communities involved. We’re analyzing water and soil samples, even the air. It’s possible that something got in there and affected the whole population. Whatever it was, it didn’t affect anyone else. Each pocket of infection is completely encapsulated. People in the surrounding communities are healthy.’

He looked at Karen. ‘But even if we find a vector, we still don’t understand the symptoms. They’re not like anything infectious I’ve ever seen or heard about. The body keeps functioning normally, but the patient is incapable of action.’

‘Have you heard about the vice president’s illness?’ Karen asked.

‘Yes, I have. Why?’

‘It presents some intriguing parallels to this one,’ Karen said. ‘Lack of voluntary motor capacity, inability to respond to commands, but apparently normal perception and vital signs.’

‘Really,’ the doctor said. ‘How did you know that?’

‘I never reveal my sources,’ Karen smiled. ‘It was told to me off the record in Washington. You might want to talk to your people there, though Walter Reed is buttoned up tight.’

‘I’ll think about it.’ The doctor shook his head slowly as he scanned the ranks of helpless victims. ‘If it’s the same disorder, that could be a bad sign.’

‘For Everhardt?’ Karen asked.

‘For all of us.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘If a thing like this ever started to spread … and us without a clue as to how to treat it …’

As they were leaving the ward they passed the bed in which the little girl lay holding the teddy bear.

‘How did that get here?’ Karen asked.

‘I think they found her at home,’ said Dr Hernandez. ‘She was in her playroom. I suppose one of the paramedics brought it along to keep her company here.’

Karen looked more closely at the child’s eyes. Did she know where she was? From her glassy stare the reporter could not tell.

For the first time the tragedy around her struck Karen. What if this little girl never moved again, never spoke again?

Karen took her leave of Dr Hernandez and went downstairs to the hospital cafeteria. Her stomach was rumbling, for she had eaten nothing since early this morning. Unfortunately smoking was not allowed in the hospital. She would have to wait for a cigarette until she was outside.

She put a tuna sandwich, a granola bar, a container of yogurt, and a bag of potato chips on a tray and filled a Styrofoam cup with black coffee.

As she was carrying the tray toward a window table a familiar voice sounded in her ear.

‘Miss Embry. You get around, I see.’ It was Joseph Kraig, the Secret Service agent she had talked to last night. He was sitting alone at a table for four. He looked unhappy and somewhat more tired than the first time she saw him.

‘So do you,’ Karen said. ‘May I join you?’

‘Why not?’ He pushed back a chair for her. She threw her coat over one of the unoccupied chairs and sat down.

‘That doesn’t look warm enough for you,’ Kraig said.

‘I haven’t been outside much,’ she said. ‘Have you?’

‘Now that you mention it, no.’

He watched her peel the top off her yogurt.

‘You don’t look as though you eat enough,’ he said.

She shrugged off the comment, sipping at her coffee with a look of distaste. ‘I hate hospitals,’ she said. ‘My grandmother was in a succession of them when she was dying. If I never see one of these cafeterias again, it will be too soon.’

Kraig nodded. He had his own hospital memories. He did not care to revisit them.

Karen ate a few spoonfuls of yogurt, then sat back to study Kraig’s face.

‘What I really need is a cigarette,’ she said. ‘These hospitals are too strict about smoking.’

Kraig nodded. ‘The world is tough on smokers nowadays.’

‘Did you ever smoke?’ she asked him.

‘In high school,’ he said. ‘I quit when I got to college.’

Karen nodded, glancing at the thick wrists emerging from his suit jacket. His fingers were square, almost stubby. The backs of his hands were broad. She guessed he worked out, perhaps too much.

‘How did you get into the federal agent business?’ she asked.

He smiled, reflecting that it was indeed a business, like any other.

‘I was young, I had just gotten married. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my life, and we needed money,’ he said. ‘A friend of mine was an FBI agent, and he told me about the salary and the benefits. From there, things just evolved.’

‘Are you still married?’ she asked.

He shook his head. She recognized the slight curl of his lip as the outward disguise of a pain he didn’t like to talk about. It was a look she had seen on her own face in the mirror.

He struck her as a straight arrow, but not as shallow. He looked like he had been around, made his share of mistakes. She liked that in him.

‘How about you?’ he asked. ‘How did you get into the reporting business?’

‘I always wanted to be a reporter,’ she said. ‘Even in high school. It keeps you busy. You meet a lot of people.’

‘People who aren’t necessarily glad to see you,’ Kraig added.

‘That’s right,’ she said, nodding. ‘But at least it gets you out of the house. I’m not that fond of my own company.’

She took a bite of her tuna sandwich, grimaced, and drank a swallow of coffee. ‘Jesus,’ she said. It had been years since she tasted food this bad, even on an airplane.

Kraig smiled understandingly.

She switched to the granola bar and ate half of it before saying what was on her mind.

‘It’s the same thing, isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘What?’

‘The same disease,’ she said. ‘The same as Everhardt.’

Kraig gave her a steady look.

‘You don’t listen, do you?’ he said. ‘No comment.’

‘On background?’ She smiled. ‘Off the record?’

He shook his head.

She was watching Kraig closely.

‘All vital functions normal,’ she said. ‘But the patient can’t act. Can’t obey simple commands, can’t talk, can’t walk, can’t feed himself. A paralysis of the function of action or decision.’

Kraig said nothing.

‘They’re looking for a vector,’ Karen said. ‘But they don’t really have a disease, so the vector may not help. There is no known disease that produces these symptoms.’

Kraig asked, ‘How do you know?’

‘I never reveal my sources.’ She shrugged.

‘Anyway, as it happens, I know a little something about this sort of thing. I did a double major in biochemistry and journalism in college. I’ve done a lot of reporting on diseases. This is definitely something new.’

Kraig shrugged. ‘If you say so. I’m not a doctor.’

She leaned forward, a hint of her clean-smelling cologne reaching Kraig, who smiled slightly.

‘Out here there are hundreds of victims,’ she said. ‘Each area is covered completely. But in Washington there is only one victim. The vice president of the United States.’

Kraig kept his poker face. But he knew she was right. If Everhardt had the same disease, dozens of others in Washington should have it by now. Something here didn’t add up.

‘Everhardt is a key to the president’s popularity. He’s big, he’s down to earth, he’s popular among men as well as women. It took the party a long time to come up with him as a running mate. Take him away, and the administration is a lot weaker with the voters. He won’t be easy to replace.’

Kraig was silent.

‘And what about the president’s political enemies?’ she asked. ‘What about Colin Goss? How does he feel about this turn of events?’

Kraig shrugged. ‘Am I supposed to have a reaction to that?’ he asked.

She crumpled the wrapper of the granola bar and threw it on the tray.

‘Something isn’t right,’ she said. ‘About Everhardt. And about this.’ She glanced around her at the deserted cafeteria.

Kraig said nothing.

‘I’m going to find out,’ she said. ‘With you or without you. When the time comes, it may be you asking the questions.’

‘Maybe.’ Kraig nodded.

‘I’m betting twelve years of journalism that you won’t like the answers,’ she said.

Picking up her coat, she left the cafeteria. Her shoulders looked very small under her sweater. A tired young woman, no doubt an incurable workaholic, who did not bother to hide her unhappiness.

Kraig liked her. There was a tranquil hopelessness about her that struck a chord in him. She had given up on something a long time ago – love? belonging? – and the emptiness it left behind gave her sharp definition as a person. The reporters he had known were shallow people, slaves to their own ambition. Karen Embry was a human being, albeit a scarred one.

Kraig wondered what she looked like without those clothes on. What her cologne smelled like closer up, when one’s lips were against her skin.

He hoped he would never see her again.




8


Washington

November 22



Susan Campbell was the only child of a wayward New Hampshire beauty queen and a philandering Boston blue blood named Lee Bellinger. Their marriage had lasted seven years. Susan was six when her father abandoned her mother. A series of boyfriends had followed, along with a desperate search for money that led ‘Dede’ Bellinger into brief forays into television, radio, advertising, and public relations, until her taste for alcohol and her notoriously poor driving ability got her killed in a one-car accident on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Susan was brought up by two straitlaced Bellinger aunts who sent her to the best private schools and offered her the combined wisdom of the Bible, the Farmer’s Almanac, and Ralph Waldo Emerson as a guide for living. At fourteen she entered Rosemary Hall as a thoroughly confused young girl with braces, skinny legs, and a worried look.

Four years of private school in the company of privileged girls from the best families in the nation did little for her confidence. She was a shy freshman at Wellesley when a friend introduced her to Michael Campbell, a Harvard junior who was about to undergo a second serious spinal operation after his first one had failed. Michael was frightened; Susan took it upon herself to encourage him. It was in that gesture of giving that she became a woman.

By the time Susan caught her breath Michael had won two Olympic gold medals and was a national celebrity. He finished law school two years after the Olympics, and two years after that ran successfully for the Maryland state legislature. By now Susan was his wife, and she helped him campaign for the US Senate. Her extraordinary blond beauty made her an attractive partner for him on the campaign trail. She had worked her way through college as a catalog model specializing in sportswear and lingerie, and for several years her scantily clad image was on every package of silk panties sold under the exclusive S/Z brand name. That image still haunted her, for the feature articles on her in women’s magazines often included it.

Susan was too beautiful for a political wife, and too shy. Michael’s campaign advisors did not quite know what to do with her.

Then something happened that changed Susan from a minor asset to a crucial weapon in Michael’s political arsenal. She was invited to be a guest on The Oprah Winfrey Show. At Oprah Winfrey’s request Susan brought along the photo album that documented her early years with Michael.

A small comedy of errors took place as Oprah’s camera was zooming in on the photo album.

‘Now, what does this show?’ Oprah was asking.

‘That’s Michael holding the flowers he brought me after our first fight,’ Susan said.

‘Fight?’ Oprah looked at the camera. ‘What were you fighting about?’

‘Sex.’ Susan blurted out the word before she could stop herself.

‘Sex?’ Oprah scented an opportunity.

‘Yes. He thought I was too straitlaced about it.’ Susan stopped in mid-sentence. ‘Uh-oh. I guess I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Not at all,’ Oprah pursued. ‘Straitlaced in what way?’

‘Making out in public. Things like that,’ Susan said.

‘Oh, you mean you’re more reserved than he is?’ Oprah asked.

‘Yes. I’m rather shy,’ Susan said. ‘It comes from my New England background, I guess.’

‘And Michael isn’t?’ Oprah asked.

Susan laughed. ‘No. Michael isn’t shy.’

‘What sort of venue are we talking about?’ Oprah asked.

‘You mean for making out?’

‘Making out. Yes.’ Oprah glanced at the audience.

‘On the beach in the moonlight,’ Susan said. ‘That sort of thing.’

‘So he likes to take risks,’ Oprah prodded.

‘Risks? Well, he’s very romantic in general, but, yes, I suppose you could say he likes to take risks.’

‘How far do you think he would go?’

‘You mean if he thought no one was watching?’ Susan asked.

‘Mmm – yes,’ Oprah agreed.

‘Oh, the fifty-yard line at the Astrodome, maybe,’ Susan said. Her hand went to her mouth instantly, but it was too late. The audience was in hysterics.

‘Oh, shit,’ Susan said, blushing.

And that was the final note, her embarrassed use of profanity. The audience’s laughter was mingled with applause. Viewers had never seen a politician’s wife speak with such spontaneous candor before.

The clip became famous. Not only did it show off Susan’s unpredictable personality and her charm, but it also referred to her sex life with one of America’s most desirable men, a man whose handsome body was known to women all over the world.

At first Michael’s public relations men were horrified. The sight of Susan on the Oprah show with her profane comment bleeped out seemed a disaster of limitless proportions. But Michael’s tracking polls went up instead of down in the weeks after the broadcast. As for Susan, she was now famous in her own right. She had become a major positive overnight.

At age thirty-two Susan found herself not only the wife of a US senator and the darling of the press, but also a member of a complex and difficult family. Judd Campbell, whose willfulness had done permanent damage to his relationships with Michael’s siblings, loved Susan and had co-opted her as a surrogate daughter. In more ways than one Susan felt exposed and off balance. But she had no choice. She had cast her lot with Michael, and she could not look back.



Susan and Michael had both been busy in recent weeks, too busy to find time for lovemaking. Their first chance came the weekend after the onset of Dan Everhardt’s sudden illness.

They met in the bedroom an hour after dinner. Both were eager. Their clothes came off quickly. Michael gasped when he felt his wife’s naked body against his own.

‘God, I want you,’ he said.

In no time, it seemed, the preliminary caresses were over and he was inside her. His embrace was gentle, though the heat rising in his loins made him groan. Her hands were on his shoulders, her legs wrapped around him.

Susan’s eyes were closed. Michael’s eyes were open. He was looking at her face, whose expression might have denoted pain as much as pleasure. She was very beautiful, he thought. Her breasts, still firm as those of a young girl, pressed against his chest. Her hips moved under him, her sex gripping him in its subtle feminine way, exciting him all the more.

Her hair covered the pillow like a splash of golden liquid. He moved faster. She slipped her hands down his rib cage and held him around his back. Her fingers touched the scar that ran down his spine.

He was very hard inside her, and very long. His strokes became slower, more deliberate. She felt him probing for the core of her, seeking to inflame her. The crisp, earthy smell of him grew more intense. Little moans sounded in her throat.

He kissed her, his tongue slipping into her mouth as his hands pulled her harder onto the straining shaft. She arched her back.

‘Oh, Michael …’

His last thought was for her closed eyes, her fresh young cheeks. She was so beautiful, so innocent …

The paroxysm came so suddenly that he gasped. The flow was long and rhythmic. His loins trembled. His breath came haltingly. It was as though he were drowning.

He stayed inside her for a long time. His pleasure ebbed slowly, and when at last he had returned to himself he kissed her cheeks and her forehead. The complicated eyes were looking at him now, and she was smiling.

She drew him to her breast and held him there. He listened to the beating of her heart.

After a while he ran a finger through her hair.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said.

She just smiled.

There was a silence. They lay looking at each other.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘You have nothing to be sorry for,’ he replied.

Another silence.

‘I love you,’ he said.

‘I love you too.’

Susan lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling. ‘I’m not myself, Michael.’

He nodded.

‘It’s this awful year,’ she said. ‘With Danny Everhardt sick, and all the things in the media … I’ve lost my balance.’

‘Sure. I understand.’ Michael remained on his side, looking at her. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Thanks.’

There was a silence. Michael was looking at his wife and thinking about the fact that every time they made love there was an excuse.

Susan never had orgasms with him. Not anymore. Probably, he thought, the most important reason was the pressure on them to have children. It had made them both uneasy about their sexuality and even their relationship. Making love had become an endlessly reiterated attempt at something, rather than a simple sharing of affection and pleasure.

It was hard to sort it all out. He loved Susan more than ever. He delighted in everything about her. Her sweetness, her quirky humor, even her fearfulness. He had known before they got married that she was a bit on the neurotic side. He didn’t mind that. It was part of her charm, even if it did make her somewhat more dependent on him.

But as time went on and they became famous, their childlessness had become more and more of an embarrassment. An ambitious political man needed a wife and children. A family.

Consultations with physicians had done nothing to clarify the issue. There was nothing wrong with either of them. Not that medical science could see.

But Michael was aware that the problem had existed even before the issue of childlessness came up. Susan’s ability to experience sexual pleasure in his arms had lessened in direct proportion to the sacrifice of her own independent needs to be his wife, a political wife.

But perhaps it went further back still …

Michael often looked back on those early days, when he was a virtual invalid being nursed by Susan and his sister Ingrid. The intimacy between himself and Susan was born of the long, arduous convalescence from his second spinal operation. When they finally made love, weeks after his body cast was removed, their sex was not only a discovery of each other but a test of his return to health. She had wanted to make him feel strong and competent. They were both nervous that night.

She had been on top. Her bare knees rubbed against his ribs, her hands rested on his chest. As they grew hotter her hair fell over his face and she repeated his name, Michael, Michael, in a voice scalded by sex. The softness of her was amazing. He could feel how deeply she wanted him inside her, possessing her. His orgasm had made him forget all about his back.

Could she have been faking even then? It was possible. After all, she wanted above all to help him, to be useful to him. Perhaps that very loyalty had somehow poisoned her, made it impossible for her to take real sensual pleasure from his body.

There was also her painful childhood. Her father had been an unrepentant philanderer and had abandoned the family. Her mother never really recovered from the loss. Letting herself go sexually with a man might be a difficult issue for Susan.

Nowadays she seemed more tense after making love than before it. Of course she tried to hide it, using tender embraces and affection as her shield. But he knew her too well to be fooled.

Michael let these painful thoughts have their territory in his mind as he cradled Susan’s delicate body in his arms.

‘I spoke to Pam Everhardt,’ she said.

He raised himself on his elbow. ‘How’s she doing?’

‘Terrible,’ Susan said. ‘She can’t believe what’s happened. She’s really beside herself.’

She lay looking at Michael. ‘She depends on Danny for so much. With three children to think about … and they don’t have much money.’

‘They never did,’ Michael said. ‘Danny was never interested. All he ever wanted was a steady salary. He used to joke about it.’

Susan nodded. ‘Pam is frantic. I think she didn’t realize at first how serious it is. Apparently the doctors haven’t given her any news she can hang her hopes on. She’s thinking of getting consultations with some new specialists.’

‘I doubt that that’s necessary,’ Michael said. ‘They’ll throw in everything but the kitchen sink at Walter Reed. Danny is a national figure.’

‘Poor Pam …’

He touched Susan’s shoulder.

‘Uh-oh,’ he said. ‘Are you identifying again?’

‘Afraid so.’

This was an old habit of Susan’s. She always identified strongly with people she knew who suffered misfortunes. When one of Michael’s Maryland constituents made the news on the basis of some horrible tragedy, Susan could be counted on to write the victim personally and often to visit. Her mail was full of heartfelt thanks from people she had touched in this way.

The Everhardts had been entertained in this house many times. Dan and Michael had served on committees together when Dan was a senator, and both were, of course, involved in party strategy meetings. Over the years the two couples had become good friends. Susan looked up to Pam as a sort of older sister. Pam had been in the political wars longer than Susan, though Pam, an overweight, rather homely woman, had never known the burden of visibility the way Susan had.

‘If only they knew what it was,’ Susan said. ‘It’s not knowing that makes it worse.’

Michael nodded. ‘I spoke to her myself today.’

‘Really?’ Susan asked.

‘I’ve been calling her every day, just to see how things are going.’

Susan smiled. This was typical of Michael, this thoughtfulness for a colleague in trouble. A few years ago Dick Friedman, a senator from Colorado who had started the same year as Michael, was injured in a hit-and-run accident that nearly killed him. Michael took personal charge of a bill that Friedman was working on and spent countless hours doing research and making phone calls to potential supporters, without ever asking for thanks or even telling anyone. Michael was loyal – a quality that had made him many friends in Congress.

‘Danny doesn’t even know who Pam is now,’

Susan said. ‘That’s what’s really killing her.’

Michael hugged his wife.

‘I know,’ he said. ‘It’s bad.’

He smiled. ‘Maybe he’ll come out of it just as quickly as he got sick. You’ve heard of people coming out of comas after a long time.’

Susan didn’t answer. She was lying on her side, her face buried against his chest.

‘Michael,’ she said.

‘What?’

She chewed her lip nervously. She was wondering whether to share her fears with him. It might make his own burdens worse.

‘Michael, do you feel safe?’

‘Safe?’ He smiled. ‘Of course I feel safe.’

‘It’s just – everything seems strange,’ she said. ‘Those sick people out in Iowa. And now Dan Everhardt … everything seems so sinister.’

He petted her gently.

‘Bad things happen in the world,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t mean the sky is falling. Just hang in there, babe. That’s all we can do. Everything will be all right.’

‘Do you think so?’ Susan asked.

‘I know so.’ His smile was confident and even playful, as though he knew a secret and was teasing her with it.

She raised her face to kiss him. She breathed in his warmth. There was a long pause while they lay in silence.

‘Do you forgive me?’ she asked at length.

‘There’s nothing to forgive.’ He kissed her lips. ‘Everything is going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.’

She nodded. ‘Thank you, Michael.’

She didn’t really feel reassured. But she did feel better. Michael always made her feel better.

The phone rang while Michael was in the shower. Naked, Susan darted into the hallway and picked it up.

‘Hello?’

‘Susan.’ The voice was female, low and somewhat husky.

‘Yes?’

‘Susan, I just wanted to let you know something.’

‘Who is this? There must be a mistake …’

‘Susan, Dan Everhardt is not going to get well.’

‘I’m sorry? What did you say?’

‘You heard me. Everhardt will not get well. The president is going to have to appoint a new vice president.’

Susan saw herself in the hall mirror. Her hair was awry, her breasts still moist from her sex with Michael.

‘I really don’t understand … Who is this?’ she asked.

‘Your husband will be the president’s choice, Susan.’

‘My husband? What are you talking about?’

‘I just wanted you to know. We’ll talk again soon.’

‘I – who is this? What are you talking about?’

A low laugh sounded on the line.

‘You’ll understand everything, Susan. In time.’

The caller hung up.

Susan put down the phone. She stood for a moment looking at her naked image in the mirror. She crossed her arms over her breasts as though to hide them. Then she felt a sudden chill, and hurried back to the bed to wait for Michael.




9


Manchester, New Hampshire

November 24

11:30 A.M.



His name was Erroll, like the pianist.

They called him ‘Radio Flyer’ because he was always talking about radio waves. Feeling them, hearing them, even seeing them.

He had been homeless for eleven years now, since they closed the state hospital. He slept in abandoned buildings, ate at shelters, and drank everything from Ripple to lighter fluid.

He carried an old Walkman he had found in the trash years ago. He was rarely seen without the little earphones in his ears. He usually had an intent, busy air about him as he dug into garbage cans, bent to collect scraps of newspaper, or, quite often, stood outside appliance stores staring at news broadcasts on display TV sets.

There were those who wondered if there was any sound coming through his famous earphones. ‘He doesn’t need sound,’ said some. ‘He’s got plenty of voices in his head.’

Today, though, the twenty-four-hour all-news station was actually penetrating to Erroll’s brain, for he had put new batteries into the Walkman two weeks ago and they were still running. He nodded knowingly as he listened to the news.

The two beat cops in their cruiser smelled him almost before they saw him. He had an unforgettable odor of stale sweat, urine, alcohol, and tooth decay. They were never glad to see him, for he was full of garbled stories of aliens who were bombarding him with waves.

‘They weren’t supposed to radiate me,’ he would say, ‘but there was a mix-up. They got the wrong guy. Now these rays are killing me, and I can’t get them to stop.’

Usually the cops took him to a shelter whose personnel then escorted him to a clinic where he got medication. But more often than not he didn’t take the medication. He said it made him drool.

Today he shambled toward the cruiser with a bit more purpose than usual. As he approached the car he took off his earphones.

‘Morning, Erroll,’ said the driver. ‘What’s on your mind?’

‘I found a dead body,’ he said.

‘You found a body?’ the driver asked.

‘A dead person,’ he said. ‘Smells, too. Maybe a few days. Wait till you see the hands and feet.’

‘Hands and feet? What are you talking about, Erroll?’

The bum was visibly excited.

‘I keep telling you guys. The men upstairs are making changes. I’m not the only one. Wait till you see the hands and feet.’

‘Where is it, Erroll?’

‘In a Dumpster in the alley off Chestnut Street. Been there all morning.’

The two cops looked at each other. They had long since learned not to attribute any truth to Erroll’s pronouncements. But a body in a Dumpster was something that had to be checked out.

‘Are you sure about this, Erroll?’

‘As God is my judge. I told you there would be changes. I’m not the only one. Just wait till you see.’

The driver sighed. ‘Okay, Erroll. Get in and you can show us.’

They both wrinkled their noses at his smell after he got into the backseat. He gave them directions. They knew the alley well. Traffic was light, so they would be there inside five minutes.

The younger cop was in a happy mood and decided to make conversation with Erroll on the way.

‘How’ve you been, Erroll?’

‘Not so good this week. This pain in my joints … It’s just arthritis. But the waves aggravate it.’

‘What waves?’

‘The radio waves.’ Erroll took on a brooding look. ‘You can’t just bombard healthy tissue with them. It plays hell with arthritis. I told them it can damage tissue. But nobody listens to me.’

‘Who did you tell, Erroll?’

‘The new doctor over at the clinic. I’m sending some circulars around to the state health authorities, too, but I have to get a stamp first.’

‘What kind of stamp, Erroll?’

‘A rate stamp. It tells your rate so they know how to sort the mail.’

The cop turned around. ‘Rate? What sort of rate?’

‘Your rate in the organization,’ Erroll explained. ‘I’m 513, but that’s only because I missed my last review. You guys, you have it made. You’re set for life. A cop, that’s 915 or better. What I couldn’t do with 915!’ Erroll looked moodily at the buildings passing by the window.

‘Uh-huh,’ the cop said, glancing at his partner with a meaningful look.

‘But I’ll get my rate back and more after today,’ Erroll said. ‘Just wait till you see. I told you there’d be changes.’

‘What kind of changes?’ asked the driver.

‘All kinds of changes,’ Erroll said darkly. ‘I told you, I’m not the only one. Everything is going to change.’

The cruiser pulled into an alley between two rows of very old office buildings. The Dumpster was about halfway down.

‘Is this it, Erroll?’ the younger cop asked.

‘Yeah. Let’s go, let’s hurry.’

They stopped behind the Dumpster. Sighing, the two cops got out of the cruiser. One of them turned to Erroll when the smell hit his nostrils.

‘Looks like you hit the jackpot, Erroll,’ he said. ‘I smell a popper, or I’m a monkey’s uncle.’

His partner looked nauseated. They approached the Dumpster. One cop lifted himself up to look inside while the other scanned the windows along the alley.

‘Did you see anybody else?’ he called to Erroll.

‘Nobody. Not a soul.’

The cop began shoving garbage out of the way, breathing through his mouth. He nodded to his partner. ‘Yeah, we got a cold one.’

The second cop came to stand next to the Dumpster while the first one threw more garbage out of the way. Erroll could hear him sighing and gasping for breath. Something was clinging to his uniform, and he threw it off with a curse.

Then he stopped cold. He looked closer at the corpse.

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘What’s the matter?’ asked the second cop.

‘There’s something wrong with the hands. Wait …’

He looked deeper, gasping in disgust. More garbage was thrown aside. Uncovered, the corpse filled the alley with the stench of decay.

Both cops looked somewhat sick, but Erroll breathed in the smell without blanching.

‘Look at the feet,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

The cop in the Dumpster rooted deeper and paused once again. He came up with wide eyes, looking at his partner.

‘Look at this,’ he said.

The partner stood on tiptoe to look over the edge of the Dumpster. He took a long look, then looked back at Erroll.

‘You saw this?’ he asked.

‘Of course I saw it,’ Erroll said. ‘Saw it first thing. That’s why I came to get you. I told you there’d be changes. Didn’t I? Didn’t I predict this? You can see he’s changed. Just look.’

Both cops looked closely at the body. ‘Holy shit,’ one of them murmured.

Then the younger one got out, went back to the cruiser, and got on the radio to call for an ambulance.

‘See?’ Erroll said to the other cop. ‘Didn’t I tell you? I told the docs too, but they wouldn’t believe me, they just smiled. But you can see with your own eyes that it’s the truth, can’t you? Come on. Say so.’ Erroll was almost jumping up and down in his excitement.

The cop had finished on the radio. A distant siren was heard.

‘What time did you say you found this, Erroll?’ the older one asked.

‘First thing this morning. Six, six-thirty.’

‘And you didn’t see anyone around?’

‘No one.’

The other cop had returned. Both of them stood by the Dumpster, looking at each other and at Erroll.

‘Did you ever see a thing like that?’ the younger one asked.

‘Never.’ The older cop was as shocked as the younger.

Erroll stood talking to them until the ambulance came. A paramedic got out and came up to them.

‘What have you got?’ he asked.

‘Dead body,’ said the younger cop. ‘Discovered by this man early this morning.’

‘Is there something unusual?’ the paramedic asked.

‘Take a look at the hands and feet.’ The older cop stood back to give the paramedic room.

The paramedic stood on tiptoe, just as the cops had done. He took a long look, then turned back to the cops.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he said.

‘I told you,’ Erroll said happily.

The two cops and the paramedic glanced at Erroll. Then the paramedic called the emergency room at the hospital.

‘We have a corpse with an odd deformity,’ he said. ‘I’m heading for the medical examiner’s office. You might want to send someone over to observe.’

They asked him something over the radio.

‘The hands and feet don’t look right,’ he said. ‘They’re enlarged and deformed. You have to touch them to really see the difference. To me they don’t even look human.’

Erroll nodded, giggling. ‘I told you there’d be changes,’ he said, putting on his earphones.




10


Gary, Indiana

November 24



In 1984 Colin Goss, already a giant in the pharmaceutical industry, found that leftist terrorists had closed down his newest factory in Costa Rica. They dynamited one of his buildings, killing twenty workers on a night shift. They also threatened the local workers he had hired.

Goss had the manager of the facility complain to the authorities. They promised to safeguard the security of the plant. Their promises were empty. New terrorist attacks followed. The plant manager himself was kidnapped and held for ransom. The leftist guerrillas demanded that Goss pay the ransom and take his business elsewhere.

Goss took matters into his own hands.

Two weeks after the kidnapping of Goss’s plant manager, a group of commandos led by professional soldiers whom Goss had hired at twice their usual fee assassinated the leaders of the local guerrilla movement. All but one, that is. The last was kidnapped from the small rural compound he used as his hideout. His name was Gabriel Cabrera. A legend among local leftists, Cabrera was the driving force of their movement.

The next week Cabrera was exchanged for the manager of Goss’s plant.

From that time on the Goss operation was allowed to function in safety. A small army of security men, all trained commandos, remained in place to assure the plant’s security and the safety of the workers.

One year to the day after the original assault on Goss’s plant, Gabriel Cabrera was run over by a laundry van in San Isidro. The driver of the van disappeared before police arrived at the scene.

No leader of similar force was found to lead the guerrilla movement, which was set back a generation by Cabrera’s death.

The Costa Rica episode had come to be known as ‘Colin Goss’s Godfather story.’ He never mentioned it in public, and denied it when reporters asked if he had killed the terrorists intentionally. But it had assured his public image once and for all. Goss could accuse anyone he wanted of being soft on terrorism and know that the charge could never be leveled at him. He had paid his dues on that score.

Rumors still circulated to the effect that after the World Trade Center attack, Goss had offered to send a group of his own commandos to Afghanistan to locate and capture Osama bin Laden. His offer was refused, because the White House did not trust Goss to keep quiet about his role in the mission if it was successful, and because the political consequences would be terrible if Goss became a hero to the public. Not even the life of bin Laden was worth the risk of positioning Colin Goss to become president himself one day.



Tonight Goss arrived at a noisy rally being given for him in Gary, Indiana. The unruly crowd was made up largely of steelworkers, many of them out of work due to the deepening recession.

Goss’s advance men had made no effort to quiet the crowd. On the contrary, the Goss people had projected images of chaos, violence, and hunger on huge video screens, so that by the time Goss was announced the mob was almost out of control.

This was a different Colin Goss from the mild, fatherly figure appearing in broadcast ads this fall. The only common link was the dark suit Goss wore as he strode quickly to the microphones.

‘Goss! Goss! Goss!’ the crowd roared. The rhythmic shout sounded like the pumping of a huge engine, pistons forcing out a hiss as steam escaped.

It took Goss several minutes to quiet the crowd sufficiently to make himself heard.

‘We all know why we’re here tonight,’ he said. ‘This is a new millennium, but the values we cherish haven’t changed. We’re here to remind ourselves about who we really are, and what kind of life we want for ourselves and our children. It’s hard sometimes, isn’t it? Hard to remember.’

The crowd was silent now, listening intently.

‘Hard to remember a time when neighbors lived in peace and helped each other when help was needed,’ Goss said. ‘A time when we could walk our streets in safety and enjoy the bounties of the greatest nation on earth. A time when love for one’s fellow man was rewarded by peace and prosperity. That seems a long time ago, doesn’t it?’

The crowd murmured its agreement.

‘That was a wonderful world,’ Goss said. ‘It was built by people who loved freedom and wanted happiness and fulfillment, both for themselves and for their children. These people were builders. They still exist, all over this great country. But today they are besieged by another kind of human being. The kind that has no interest in building, but only in destroying. Do you know who I am talking about?’

‘Yes!’ The crowd answered in one voice.

‘These people are not smart,’ Goss said. ‘They are not brave. They are not good. They don’t know how to build or to create. But they do know how to hate. Do you know who I’m talking about?’

‘Yes!’ The crowd’s response was louder.

‘You know their faces,’ he said. ‘And you’ve heard their voices. They brag about the thousands of innocent men, women, and children they’ve murdered with their terrorist bombs. Even today, on your television screen, you can see them dancing in the streets carrying signs to celebrate the slaughter of eight hundred innocent children on an educational cruise.’

As though on cue the screen behind Goss displayed the infamous mushroom cloud rising above the sparkling Mediterranean after the destruction of the Crescent Queen. The image was quickly followed by a now-familiar picture of pretty Gaye Symington, the most famous of the victims, standing on a diving board at a junior high school swimming meet. Water dripped from the curves of her blossoming adolescent body, making her look strangely vulnerable.

Goss paused to let the crowd remember the Crescent Queen.

‘Why, these people have never built a thing in their lives. They’ve never created a thing or had an individual thought. Yet they take pride in murdering free people. The blood of innocent children is on their hands, but they’re not ashamed of it. They’re proud of it. They think their God is going to reward them for it. Do you know who they are?’

‘YES!’

‘They are cruel and brutal and heartless when they kill women and children,’ he said. ‘But they are cowards. What happens when you put them on a field of battle, with men to fight, instead of women and children? Watch them cringe, watch them hold up their hands, watch them run!’

A roar of anger surged through the crowd. The memory of surrendering Iraqi soldiers in Kuwait was fresh enough in American minds to join the image of Arab fanatics calling for the terrorist murder of civilians.

‘And what happens when we capture them and drag them into our courts?’ Goss asked. ‘They demand justice and mercy, in the name of our constitution and our laws. The same justice and mercy they denied their helpless victims.’

He paused, surveying the crowd with his sharp eyes.

‘And in this they remind us of our own terrorists,’ he said. ‘The ones you’ve seen in dark alleys, demanding your hard-earned money at the point of a gun or knife. The ones you’ve seen on street corners, too lazy to work for a living, waiting to corrupt your children. The ones you’ve seen cruising through poor neighborhoods in their gaudy cars, spraying bullets at imaginary enemies and killing the innocent. What do these people say when they are arrested and called to account for their crimes? They demand justice, they demand mercy.’

A twisted smile curled Goss’s lips.

‘I wonder if the word people is really justified as a description of these creatures,’ he said. ‘For one thing, they are far too cruel to be called people. For another, they are far too cowardly to be called people. And they are certainly too dirty to be called people. Are they really human at all?’

‘NO!’ The crowd roared the word in one voice.

‘Don’t you find it funny, in a tragic sort of way, that we have allowed these animals to terrorize us, simply because we are civilized? That we have turned into lambs waiting for the slaughter, simply because we are too civilized to strike back at an enemy who wants to destroy us? Our own compassion has blinded us to the truth about these cowards. They take their courage and their swagger from our own weakness. At the first sign of strength from us, they run squealing for cover. For too long we’ve been too civilized to take a stand against them.’

An invisible electricity held the crowd in silence.

‘But that’s all over now, isn’t it?’ Goss concluded. ‘The age of fear, the era of trembling, is over. No longer will we go about the business of freedom like victims. No longer will we wait like sheep in a pen for the wolf’s next attack. This time it will be us attacking. And when the butcher runs for cover, we will run faster. We will catch him and destroy him. And when he falls to his knees and prays for mercy at the eleventh hour, what will we do to him?’

‘KILL! KILL! KILL!’

‘GOSS! GOSS! GOSS!’

The crowd surged this way and that, held in check with difficulty by the local police who were working alongside Goss’s security staff. They shook their fists at the cameramen and reporters on the periphery of the crowd. Decades of downsizing in American business, along with the recent recession, fueled their rage. So did countless headlines about terrorist attacks, gang warfare, street crime, welfare fraud, school shootings, illegal drugs, and sexual permissiveness. Not to mention six months of nuclear terror on a scale not seen since the worst days of the Cold War.

The crowd did not have to sort out the manifold sources of its rage. Colin Goss focused it for them. With a sure touch developed over many years, he aimed their anger at a faceless mass of dirty, lazy, selfish, violent, and ultimately inhuman creatures who were responsible for the ills that beset society in the new millennium.

‘GOSS! GOSS! GOSS!’ came the chant, louder than ever now.

At the end the chaos was so great that Goss had to be escorted to his limousine by security men. It took forty-five minutes to disperse the crowd. Scattered incidents of violence would be reported in the nearby inner-city neighborhoods overnight, all of them directed at minorities.

Colin Goss was gone now, en route to his private jet and a speaking engagement in another city. But his message of hate remained behind him, as he knew it would. The legend ‘Time for a Change’ loomed on the enormous video screens.



In a pickup truck on a back road in rural Tennessee, three men were listening to Goss’s speech on the radio.

‘Fuckin’ A,’ the driver said.

‘No shit. Put that fucker in the White House and our problems are over.’ Rafe, riding shotgun, said this.

‘Fucker knows what’s happening,’ said the passenger in the middle, a slender out-of-work auto mechanic named Donny.

They were all unemployed, though Donny had been laid off only last month. Dick, the driver, was a construction worker who had not earned a cent in over a year. Rafe was an air conditioner repairman, out of work since the end of summer.

‘Look,’ said Dick. ‘Look at this.’

A young black boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen, was walking along the shoulder of the road. He wore overalls and oversized running shoes. As the truck approached he looked over his shoulder without much interest.

Dick brought the truck to a sudden halt on the shoulder, scattering gravel into the weeds.

‘Fucker,’ he said.

‘Fucker!’ his friends echoed.

They were all drunk. They had spent the night pouring down boilermakers at a country tavern. Their search for girls had been fruitless, and they had left in the truck with a bottle of cheap vodka and some Cokes, in time to hear Goss’s speech on the radio as they cruised the farm fields.

They didn’t need to talk over what was to happen. Rafe leaped from the passenger’s seat and seized the black boy by his shoulders. Donny kicked the boy between the legs, whooping excitedly as a cry of pain came from the boy’s lips.

‘What did I do to you?’ the boy cried. ‘Leave me alone.’

Donny’s fist crushed the boy’s nose before he could say another word.

The boy fell to the gravel shoulder. Donny and Rafe crouched over him, fists flying, while Dick aimed kicks at his crotch, one after the other, methodically.

‘Nigger.’

‘Fucker.’

They would not have done it if they had been sober. Even drunk they would not have taken the risk had it not been for Goss’s speech and their frustration at the tavern. But now they were out of control, beating the boy with all their strength. He squirmed and flailed under the blows, his struggles already getting weaker.

‘Kill the fucker,’ said Dick.

The boy’s eyes were beginning to glaze over. Rafe aimed a powerful kick at his undefended temple. Dick was kneeling to undo the boy’s fly.

Then something happened.

Dick’s hands froze in midair. His face, contorted in a grimace of hate, suddenly went blank. Off balance, he teetered and fell to the ground, his arms and legs rigid.

‘Dick? Are you all right?’

Rafe and Donny paused to look at him. Rafe, assuming the black boy had injured Dick in some way, aimed a hard punch and hit his unprotected stomach. The boy screamed.

Donny bent to look at Dick. ‘Fucker passed out on us.’

Rafe pushed Donny aside to get a better look at Dick, whose eyes were wide open. They were not the glazed eyes of a drunken man.

‘Bullshit,’ Rafe said. ‘No way. He’s not passed out.’

The two men stood swaying over their friend, swearing inconsequentially as they wondered what had happened. They did not notice the black boy as he crept away into the thick brush.

‘You don’t think …’ Rafe was scratching his head.

‘Come on, don’t bullshit me.’

‘You know … that thing … that sickness.’

Donny looked closely at Dick’s eyes. ‘Jesus.’

‘Let’s get him to a hospital.’

Rafe had jumped back in alarm. He seemed afraid of the inert body of his friend. He shook his hands as though to rid them of a contagion. ‘Fuck that. Let’s get out of here. We’ll call an ambulance.’

They hopped into the truck, suddenly sober. Rafe gunned the engine. Spinning the wheels on the gravel, he got the truck onto the road and hit sixty within a few seconds.

The roar of the engine subsided. The only sound was the wind in the weeds. The black boy was nowhere to be seen. The motionless white man lay on the shoulder, where a passing farmer would notice him before dawn.

Rafe would fall into drunken sleep before dawn. When he failed to awaken by mid-afternoon, his brother would become alarmed and call 911.

By then Donny would already be in the hospital, a victim of the mystery disease like his two friends.




11


Washington

November 25



Karen Embry was waiting for a news conference to be given by the director of the CIA.

The director was a political appointee who had played a crucial fund-raising role in the president’s narrow election victory. His background was in business and advertising. He had not expected to end up on the hot seat in his new job, though he was aware of the embarrassments suffered by the intelligence community over the past decade.

But the Crescent Queen explosion changed all that. The public held the CIA responsible for not anticipating the terrorist threat and taking steps to prevent attacks. The agency’s fecklessness was one of the key issues cited by those who wanted a new administration in Washington.

So the director was on the defensive today as usual.

Karen had arrived at CIA headquarters a half hour early, and she studied her notes as other journalists set up video cameras and joked with each other. She had dressed carefully for the news conference. She knew the director liked women. She wore a fitted blazer with a short skirt. Her legs were her best feature, along with her eyes, and she knew how to show them off.

The director began the news conference with some routine details about the population of terrorists in European jails. His voice was hard to hear, and his syntax was slightly garbled as usual. Evasiveness had become part of his persona, like the character in Proust who became deaf when unwelcome things were being said to him.

He droned on as long as he dared and finally threw the session open to questions. Karen was the first reporter to raise her hand.

‘As you know, sir,’ she began, ‘the intelligence community has not gotten to the bottom of the Crescent Queen disaster.’

This statement was not a surprise. But it was a sore point with the director.

‘All I can tell you about that,’ he replied carefully, ‘is that we’re investigating. We will bring those responsible for the attack to justice.’

‘All the major known terrorist organizations have denied involvement in the attack,’ Karen said. ‘Isn’t that true, sir?’

‘Yes, but we suspect their denials are in bad faith,’ the director replied.

‘The intelligence services haven’t been able to prove that any terrorist group had either nuclear weapons or the missiles to deliver them, isn’t that true?’ Karen asked.

‘That’s true.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that someone else was behind the attack?’

The director raised an eyebrow.

‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

‘If we suppose for the sake of argument that none of the known terrorist groups was behind the incident,’ Karen said, ‘wouldn’t it be possible that someone else built and delivered the bomb, knowing that the existing terrorist groups would fall under suspicion?’

The director did not know how to answer.

‘We have no evidence that such a scenario is the correct one,’ he said.

‘But if it were,’ she pursued, ‘how would you proceed?’

The director was thrown. His professional role was to sift through data and find the most clear and obvious answer. He had no time for unlikely hypotheses, and didn’t really know how to deal with them.

‘All I can tell you is that we’re investigating all possibilities,’ he said. ‘The very fact that an outlaw organization possessed the technology to use a nuclear weapon’ – he pronounced the word nucular – ‘against innocent civilians is a monstrous thing, a totally unacceptable thing. I guarantee you we will find out the truth behind the Crescent Queen disaster, and those responsible will be punished to the full extent of the law.’

Karen waited while he answered a softball question from another reporter. Then she raised her hand again.

‘The wire services are reporting an outbreak of illness in southern Tennessee that has features in common with last week’s outbreak in Iowa,’ she said. ‘You’re familiar with that, sir?’

‘Yes, I am.’ The director had been informed as a matter of routine about the outbreaks in Iowa and Tennessee but had not given the matter much thought, since it was outside his field of expertise.

‘Do you consider the outbreaks to be a public health concern?’ Karen asked.

‘Certainly. The public health people are looking into it.’

‘But not a terrorism concern.’

‘We have no reason to suspect that.’

Karen pushed an errant lock of her dark hair away from her eyes.

‘Let me ask you hypothetically, Mr Director – suppose that terrorists possessed a chemical or biological weapon capable of affecting large groups of people in a short period of time. Do you think the radical terrorist organizations would shrink from using such a weapon on a mass scale?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure,’ the director replied. ‘But I would not like to find out. I want to be sure that none of the terrorist groups ever develops that capability.’

‘Do the outbreaks in Iowa and Tennessee put thoughts like this into your head?’

The director thought for a moment.

‘They would if the disease we found there could be linked to any known toxin or pathogen.’

‘And it has not?’

‘No, it has not.’

‘Are you saying, sir, that it is the same disease in both locations?’

‘No, I’m not,’ the director replied with some irritation. ‘I’m only relating what I’ve been told by the public health authorities.’

‘You’re saying that neither disease presents symptoms associated with known pathogens or toxins?’

‘To my knowledge, neither. That’s correct.’

‘What if a toxin or pathogen as yet unknown to the authorities had in fact been used?’

The director shrugged this off. ‘You’re talking about a hypothesis for which we have no evidence. It’s hard for me to comment about such things.’

He made a point of calling on other reporters for the next several minutes. Karen let him get away with it, for she was confident he would look at her sooner or later. He had noticed her beauty.

When his eyes darted to her she pounced. ‘You’re aware, Mr Director, that Vice President Everhardt’s illness is baffling the physicians at Walter Reed,’ she said. ‘Are you concerned that a man so important is ill, and nobody knows why?’

The director was taken off guard.

‘I don’t know that to be true,’ he said. ‘The doctors are evaluating the vice president’s condition and giving him the best possible treatment. I don’t know that they are ‘baffled,’ as you put it.’

‘But no one at Walter Reed or in the White House has been willing to comment on the situation,’ Karen said. ‘Don’t you think the public has a right to know what the vice president is suffering from?’

The director frowned. ‘I’m not really the person for you to be asking about that,’ he said. ‘I’m not a physician, and I’m not close to the situation. I’d suggest you speak to the doctors.’

‘They’re not talking.’

The director was ruffled by Karen’s questions. It had been a long time since he had been grilled this way by a reporter. Her questions were maddening because he didn’t have good answers to any of them.

‘Sources have told me,’ she pursued, ‘that the vice president’s illness has features in common with the outbreaks in Iowa and Tennessee. Is there any truth to that?’

‘None at all, to my knowledge,’ the director replied. ‘Miss Embry, at the risk of offending you, I think we should stick to the topic at hand.’

‘The topic, as I understand it, is terrorism,’ Karen countered. ‘It seems clear that terrorism and public health are two issues that can’t be separated easily.’

‘Nor can they be connected easily,’ the director said. ‘Not without hard evidence.’

He did not call on Karen again. The news conference petered out amid questions about the ongoing Chechen uprising in Russia and the India-Pakistan conflict.

As the reporters were packing up their equipment the director’s press secretary appeared at Karen’s side. A tall, handsome man who looked strikingly like a male model, he had kept a low profile during the news conference.

‘I’m Mitch Fallon,’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Why haven’t we met before?’

‘I moved here from Boston last spring,’ Karen said. ‘I’m doing a series of articles on politics and public health issues.’

‘Well, it’s good to have you here,’ he smiled. ‘However, I must say you seem to have a slight tendency toward the hypothetical.’

She smiled. ‘Back in the eighties, who could have guessed that the money being used to support the Contras in Nicaragua was coming from Ronald Reagan through the Ayatollah Khomeini? Sometimes the wildest hypothesis is less strange than the truth.’

‘I have to agree with you there.’

He studied the young reporter. Her look of permanent skepticism seemed superimposed over a face that, at rest, would have communicated something quite different. Something soft and even girlish that she had long since renounced.

‘Do you have any evidence for your theories about the Crescent Queen?’ he asked. ‘I mean, about terrorists having the capacity to make and deliver nuclear weapons.’

There it was again – nucular. Karen had to suppress a smile. Was Fallon mispronouncing the word out of loyalty to his boss? There was no way to know.

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s just a possibility I’ve been wondering about. I thought it was strange that all the known terrorist organizations denied being involved. Something about that had a ring of truth. They’re ruthless people. They don’t care about public opinion. They wouldn’t lie about a thing like that.’

‘What about the illness in Iowa, and the Tennessee problem?’ he asked. ‘What got you interested?’

‘I try to keep tabs on the news from the various public health organizations,’ she said. ‘I just thought the stories sounded strange. I’ve done articles on the major viruses, HIV and Ebola and Marburg and so on. I flew out to Iowa a couple of days ago, by the way.’

‘Did you learn anything?’

‘A little, here and there.’

He was looking at her with apparent admiration for her beauty, though she sensed a harder scrutiny behind it.

‘What evidence do you have that such a thing might be intentional?’ he asked.

‘None,’ she said, not taking her eyes off him.

‘What makes you think the connection is even possible?’ he asked.

‘It seems to me that it’s just a matter of time,’ she said. ‘If you look at the terrorist activity over the last couple of decades – Lockerbie, Oklahoma City, the World Trade Center, and of course the Crescent Queen – it’s obvious that the terrorists have been coming into possession of better and better technology. They’re not the old-fashioned bomb-in-the-suitcase types. They’re twentieth-century men, like everybody else. And with countries like Iraq and Libya stockpiling chemical and biological weapons, it seems to me almost inevitable that sooner or later we’re going to see a terrorist attack employing such weapons.’

‘A scary thought,’ he said.

‘But not unrealistic,’ she replied. ‘The terrorists don’t care much about human life. They do what they think they have to do to achieve their ends. As I say, some things are only a matter of time.’

‘But you don’t have any evidence that the time is now,’ he probed.

‘No.’ She shook her head.

There was a pause. Fallon nodded to a female reporter who was hurrying past with a cameraman in tow. Something about the nod seemed a bit too familiar for a high-level official’s press secretary. Karen suspected Fallon was a ladies’ man. She filed away her intuition for future reference.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Nice talking to you.’

‘If it was possible to make a person sick for political purposes,’ she said, ‘Vice President Everhardt would probably be a good choice, given the current circumstances. Don’t you think so?’

Fallon smiled. ‘You certainly do have a tendency toward the hypothetical,’ he observed.

‘Think about it a moment,’ she went on, undaunted. ‘Everhardt was the ideal running mate for the president five years ago. He was chosen over a lot of other possible candidates, and the process of selection took a long time. Now, just like that, he’s out of the picture.’

‘That’s true.’

‘The administration has been struggling in the polls, with all these calls for the president to resign,’ Karen said. ‘Now, with Everhardt removed, the pressure will probably increase. The administration looks weaker than ever.’

Fallon nodded. ‘Maybe.’

‘Suppose for the sake of argument that Everhardt was eliminated intentionally,’ Karen suggested.

‘That’s a heck of a supposition,’ Fallon observed.

‘Far-fetched or not,’ the reporter said, ‘suppose it was true. Unlikely things happen in the world, don’t they? Think of the Kennedy assassination. Nobody saw it coming. And the ripple effect was enormous. The whole course of our history …’

As a CIA man Fallon bristled at the mention of the Kennedy assassination.

‘I’m afraid I’m out of time, Miss Embry. I wish you good luck with your theories.’

‘Call me Karen.’ She held out a hand. Mitch Fallon was a person she had to be nice to.

‘Karen, then. Call me Mitch. Keep in touch. Nice to meet you.’

‘Same here,’ she smiled. ‘I’ll be around.’

He watched her walk away from him. She moved with firm strides, her body lithe and athletic. The young female animal at the peak of her powers and her attractiveness, he thought. If she was this intense on the job, what must she be like between the sheets?

He stopped in at the director’s office on his way back to his own office.

‘Did you talk to her?’ the director asked.

‘Yes.’

‘What does she have?’

‘Nothing, except an overactive imagination. As far as I can see.’

‘Keep your eye on her.’

‘I will, sir.’

The director turned his back.



Karen arrived home an hour after the news conference. Before turning on the computer to write down her notes, she rewound the tape on her office VCR and checked the last hour of news. An item immediately caught her eye.



‘Health authorities in Australia are concerned about a tiny Aborigine village deep in the outback where a strange and crippling illness has broken out. Over a hundred villagers are unable to speak or move. Others, according to doctors on the scene, have died of the disease, which was apparently not reported at first because of the remoteness of the village.’



A video image of one of the victims was displayed behind the commentator. It was a close-up, surprisingly eloquent, of an Aborigine girl, perhaps seventeen years old, whose eyes looked unseeing into the camera. The eyes were macabre. They looked hypnotized from within.

Karen dropped her notes and looked long and hard at the TV screen.

She had seen that look before. On the face of a six-year-old child in Iowa.




12


The girl is bound to an apparatus which resembles a couch or examining table, tilted sharply toward the floor. Her skin glows against the black leatherette, the more so because of the light shining down from above. Her eyes are open, but she seems to sleep like the princess in the fairy tale. Her hair is blond. It is in disarray and hangs over her left cheek, obscuring much of her face.

Her hands are bound by rings fixed under the seat. Her legs are not bound, but because of the shape of the apparatus she assumes the crouch as a natural position. Her knees are bent, the thighs approximately vertical, the calves angled toward the floor. It is just possible for the eye to see that her toenails are painted, though the color does not come through from this vantage point.

Her left breast is clearly visible, pushed against the leatherette. The outline of her ribs is seen under the skin of her side. Her arms are long and slender.

There is something pathetic about her bound posture, but also something provocative. Her pelvis is the center of focus. The gradual upward thrust of the back leads to it, as does the vertical line of the thighs. The curve of her buttocks is given optimum shape and tension by her bound posture. She looks like a princess, but not one garbed in silk and brocade. Hers is the nobility of nudity.

There is movement, there is sound. A shadow approaches from the right, moving slowly. The girl sees nothing. As the shadow comes closer there are calls from the distance, and laughter. She does not hear. Or rather, if she hears she does not move a muscle to show that she hears.

The shadow is next to her now, a hand outstretched. The music builds toward its crescendo. The voices call out urgently.

Now the hanging cord is seen, dangling from the other hand. Slender, tufted at the end, it moves along the wall, swinging slightly as it approaches her. The voices call out encouragement. Uncertain, hesitant, the shadow dangles. Then it falls over the naked buttocks. The girl’s empty eyes do not say whether she is aware of the approach or not. Is it obliviousness or terror that freezes her?

The shadow swings this way and that. The voices call out. The female flesh waits passively.

Suddenly everything stops. The poised shadow does not move. The girl is a statue. The voices are cut off. The hanging tail is an inch from her crotch. But nothing moves. All is still.

A sound is heard. A gasp, perhaps a cry of anguish.

Darkness falls. Girl, shadow, wall, disappear like magic.

The scene is ended, until next time.




13


Sydney, Australia

November 27



Karen Embry’s plane landed at four-thirty in the morning, Australia time, after a total of twenty-three hours spent in the air.

It had taken lengthy politicking with her agent to get him to agree to this journey. She had told him much – but not all – that she had learned about the mystery illness. Sensing a book in the offing, he had finally given in.

Karen could not sleep on airplanes. By the time she arrived she had not slept in a day and a half. She had powerful uppers in her purse, given to her by a fellow reporter who was a speed addict. But she hadn’t taken any. So far the scent of a story was enough to keep her alert.

She took a local flight to Perth, and then a chartered Cessna into the outback, landing on an airstrip seemingly a thousand miles from nowhere.

According to the reports she had read, the mystery disease had gone undiscovered for a couple of months or more. It had not spread beyond the small tribe of Aborigines, but it had killed most of them and incapacitated the rest. There were only about fifteen survivors, most of them quarantined in a health clinic.

The reports about the illness were garbled, no doubt because of the remote location and the victims’ suspicion of the authorities. However, in one somewhat obscure report an Aborigine from a neighboring village had said, ‘When the people neared death, their feet and hands became hard and large, like the hoofs of animals.’ This had made Karen decide to see the syndrome for herself.

This would make a tremendous feature story, she thought. She could scale it up for the scientific journals, and simultaneously hype it with more dramatic wording for the popular media. If it was true that the disease involved bizarre deformities, the story could be important.

In the Land Rover Karen gazed for a few moments at the vast expanse of scrub land, punctuated by eucalyptus and occasional acacias. Then she opened the report, which included the testimony of the neighboring villager.

‘The people became silent and rigid. Those who were standing up remained standing until they fell. Those who were sitting did not move until fatigue and weakness made them fall over. They would not speak. They seemed stubborn and did not move. Then they became sick.’

Karen furrowed her brow in concentration. She twirled a strand of her dark hair with a finger. She barely noticed the exotic scenery around her, or the bumps and lurches of the Land Rover on the dirt roads.

The driver dropped her at the tiny hospital where the sick Aborigines were being treated. It was a battered old frame building that huddled under a shabby growth of gum trees. Emus languidly patrolled the scrub in search of small rodents. It was incredibly hot.

The doctor in charge was a tired-looking man in late middle age. His name was Dr Roper.

‘Thank you for seeing me,’ Karen said. ‘I hope my timing isn’t too terrible.’

‘I’m glad you got here quickly,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much time left. Of the fifteen villagers we brought in, twelve are already dead. The three still living are critical.’

‘Can I see them?’ Karen asked.

‘Sure. But you’ll have to put on a hot-zone suit. We’re still not sure whether the disease is communicable, and we’re not taking chances.’

He sent her to a nurse who helped her put on a decontamination suit. She accompanied the doctor to a quarantined ward where the three remaining patients were being kept. All were attached to life-support systems, tubes connecting them to electronic machines of surprising sophistication for this remote region.

‘They’re completely comatose and unresponsive,’ the doctor told her. ‘They were that way when they came in. The vital signs have been steadily weakening. We’ve been concentrating on keeping them breathing and supporting the heart rate, but there’s nothing more we can do. They’re simply dying.’

The faces of the three Aborigines, one woman and two men, were wasted. Their dark skin seemed gray as death approached.

‘As far as we can tell,’ the doctor said, ‘the progress of the disease was much faster in the children than in the adults, and slightly faster in the women than in the men. But it’s hard to speculate with any accuracy. No one reported the outbreak until almost everybody was dead.’

Karen was looking at the sheets covering the hands and feet of the dying Aborigines. They were suspiciously distended.

‘May I look?’ she asked.

‘Get ready for a shock,’ the doctor said. ‘This isn’t easy to look at.’

He pulled back the sheet from the female patient. The hands were grossly distended and distorted. It looked as though the fingers had fused together in a gelatinous mass. But when Karen touched the left hand on the invitation of the doctor, it was hard. It had the appearance of amber, but darker, more opaque.

‘We’ve done biopsies,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before. The cell structure looks human, but the tissue is a morphological monstrosity.’

He pulled back the sheet to show Karen the foot. It was even more distorted than the hand. The toes were fused, and the front of the foot had pulled back toward the heel, creating a bizarre hooflike impression.

‘Apparently the distortion comes on not long before death,’ the doctor said. ‘Those who died the quickest had less deformation than those who lasted longer. Whatever the cause and mechanism are, we haven’t got a clue. My colleagues are talking along the lines of Elephant Man’s disease, acromegaly, things like that.’

Karen was looking more closely at the distorted foot. ‘Or some sort of scleroderma,’ she said. ‘Or perhaps one of the collagenous tissue diseases like dermatomyositis or even lupus erythematosus.’

The doctor raised an eyebrow, impressed by Karen’s knowledge.

‘Are you a physician yourself?’ he asked.

‘No.’

He took her to a makeshift pathology lab in an adjoining building. There were bodies of several villagers there, women and children as well as men. The macabre hooflike fusion and distension of the hands and feet were obvious in all the cases. In the two children it looked particularly cruel and unsettling.

‘Were there other physical changes?’ Karen asked. ‘Internally, I mean.’ Karen knew enough physiology to know that a change as bizarre as the distorted extremities of these victims had to be accompanied by some sort of massive anomaly at the cellular level.

‘We’re not equipped to deal with that here,’ the doctor told her. ‘The pathologists in Adelaide are working on the two patients we sent there. I’ll give you their names. They’re doing complete autopsies with cell studies. They may have something for you.’

Back in his office the doctor showed Karen a strange object, apparently fashioned out of clay. It was a doll or talisman in the shape of a person with enlarged hands and feet.

‘This was made by the medicine man,’ he said. ‘It was found by one of the health officers in the village. We think it represents the illness. Apparently the medicine man tried to use the icon to propitiate the gods.’

Karen held the object in her hands. Though crudely designed, it radiated a sort of force, born obviously of the medicine man’s intense faith. The creature held out its oversized hands as though in a gesture of acknowledgment, or perhaps prayer.

‘Have you ever seen an icon like this before?’ she asked.

The doctor shook his head. ‘Never.’

He wrote down the names of the physicians in Adelaide who were working on the bodies. Karen thanked him and went to a small lodge that catered to hunters, hikers, and the occasional brave tourist who came to this remote area. On the way the driver pointed out a wombat that Karen was not quick enough to see as it waddled out of sight in the brush. Rock wallabies, some carrying infant joeys in their pouches, were surprisingly plentiful.

Her exhaustion and jet lag were catching up to her now. She had difficulty filling out the guest form. By the time she reached the little cabin where she was to sleep, she was moving slowly and her eyelids were drooping.

She left her overnight bag and briefcase unopened on the floor and lay down on the bed. The old comforter that covered it smelled of mothballs and stale food, but to Karen it felt wonderful. The minute she closed her eyes dreams began to crowd against the conscious thoughts in her mind. She breathed deeply, floating mentally over the impressions of the last ten days. It had been a busy time, full of breaking stories, garbled rumors, and well-kept secrets.

A distant motor coughed into life. A dog barked. The calls of strange birds sounded far away. Dream thoughts transported Karen to the bed of her childhood, with its colorful afghan and stuffed animals. She reached out reflexively for the blue teddy bear that no longer existed.

She plummeted quickly toward deep sleep. Her dreams took her further and further from this time and place, as though she were on a magic carpet. But something woke her up suddenly. She lay rubbing her burning eyes and looking at the unfamiliar room. What had awakened her?

Hands and feet.

She got out of bed with a sigh and went to her briefcase. She took out the portable computer and turned it on. She clicked through the various folders, searching for something she could not quite remember. She cursed herself for not finding better titles for her icons. It was time consuming to open them one by one, searching for a mere hint or an overheard clue.

Then, fighting off sleep, she remembered. She closed a folder, opened another one, and found the icon she was looking for.

‘Jesus,’ she said.

She called the airline, made a reservation for tomorrow night, and made a note of it on her computer’s desktop.

She would go to Adelaide first thing tomorrow morning and see what she could learn from the pathologists there.

Then she would fly to New Hampshire.

After looking at her watch she lay down under the comforter and closed her eyes. There was time for a few hours’ sleep.

Hands and feet, she thought. Hands and feet.

Exhaustion put her under before the thoughts in her mind could produce insomnia. But the dreams that filled her sleep were cruel and frightening.




14


Atlanta, Georgia

November 27



Damian Lightfoot was cleaning up the trash.

Not physical trash, of course. Damian was a computer technician hired by the Corporation to assay and discard the vast amounts of unneeded and out-of-date files that collected in the company computers. It had to be done carefully. Ninety-five percent of the time the files and documents earmarked for trashing by the various research departments were useless. But once in a while a file or group of files found its way into the trash by accident and had to be double checked with the department concerned. More than once a crucial bit of research had been saved in this manner, either by Damian Lightfoot or by his predecessors.

The trash-management job was not very high paying, and was certainly not fun. It was pure drudgery. You assayed the vast quantities of trash, looking for markers that had been agreed upon in the current quarter to identify outmoded files to be trashed. When you found a file that wasn’t clearly marked you saved it in a special quadrant and queried the departments involved. Usually it took them days to answer you, for the scientists looked upon the computers as their slaves, and the computer techs as idiots. Sometimes you had to send a dozen memos before they bothered to acknowledge you.

Of course you had to clear every major decision with Security. The Corporation faced stiff competition from other companies around the country and overseas. The research files were a key target, and computer invasion was the preferred line of attack. A computer security firm revamped the entire system every three months, and their staffers were always available for advice or clarification.

Damian was drinking his ninth Coke of the day and listening to Metallica through his earphones when he found the file with the strange name. Project 4. He had never seen it before.

He held the file and tried searching through various sectors of the database for the name. A drug? A chemical? No dice. No trace of it anywhere.

He didn’t trash it. He was paid to always hold back until he got confirmation.

Out of curiosity he tried to open the file. A message appeared on the screen:



THE FILE YOU HAVE TRIED TO OPEN REQUIRES SECURITY CLEARANCE. PLEASE TYPE IN YOUR NAME AND DESIGNATION.



Shrugging, Damian did as he was told.



PLEASE WAIT FOR SECURITY ACKNOWLEDGMENT, said another message.



Damian turned up the music and waited, sipping at his Coke. It was lunchtime, and he was hungry. He had a date to go out for lunch with one of the girls from the front office, a girl who was too new to know about Damian yet. Had she had one more week she would have been warned off him, but he had gotten to her while she was new.

Personally he didn’t think he was that strange. True, he had certain tastes in food and music that made others uneasy. But he led a comparatively normal life, and he didn’t want anything sexual that was different from what anybody else wanted. He still didn’t understand why that girl Cynthia, from accounting, had taken such a dislike to him on their one date. She had bad-mouthed him to everybody within shouting distance. In a company of this size, that was quite damaging.

He waited in front of the screen, sighing, listening to his stomach grumble. This had to be an error. They had probably misnamed the file.

He finally decided to get a bag of potato chips from the machine next door. He would simply leave the computer waiting. It would only be a minute or less.

He got up, still wearing his earphones, and went to the door. It opened before he could touch the knob. A man in civilian clothes – dark suit, tie, brown shoes – stood in the doorway.

The man said something, but Damian couldn’t hear him because of the music.

‘What?’ Damian asked, pulling one of the buds from his ear.

‘Are you Damian?’ asked the man. Damian noticed now that he wasn’t wearing a company badge.

‘Yeah. What can I do for you?’

‘You found a file?’

‘Yeah.’ Damian turned to gesture at the screen. ‘Can’t open it. Never saw the name before. Are you security?’

‘Yes.’

The man had closed the door with a glance into the corridor.

‘Show me,’ he said.

‘Here.’ Damian leaned over the screen. ‘Look for yourself. It’s not in any of the directories.’

The man leaned over Damian’s shoulder. He gave off a faint scent of aftershave and tobacco. The name ‘Project 4’ was in the middle of the screen.

‘Are you sure?’ the man asked. ‘Did you try QPC?’

Damian laughed. ‘What’s QPC?’

But the man’s arm had curled around Damian’s neck while he was turning to ask the question. The breath was squeezed out of Damian’s body. He felt his muscles tense, his arms and legs flailing this way and that. Then there was a sharp crack! as the arm broke his neck, and a spreading red wave swept over his vision, blinding him.

He was dead before he hit the floor.




15


November 28



The subject was in a traditional hospital bed set up in a special room full of monitors, not terribly different from a room for a patient on the critical list in any modern intensive care unit. Monitors for the usual vital signs – blood pressure, respiration, pulse rate, and so on – were against the walls, connected to the subject by wires. In addition, however, there were more sophisticated machines that monitored less obvious physical processes. There were also video cameras timed to keep a constant watch on the subject’s physical appearance.

Two men in white coats were standing beside the bed. Both wore stethoscopes. The younger man had surgical gloves on.

‘How are we doing?’ the older man asked.

‘Vital signs slowly decreasing,’ the other man said. ‘He’s in coma now. Respiration shallow, heart rate uneven. I suspect heart failure may be the proximate cause of death.’

‘Other vital signs?’

‘Liver and kidney function well below normal. Hematocrit reflecting cellular and other changes.’

‘What about the EEG?’

The younger man held up a printout. ‘Brain waves are our best signature,’ he said. ‘The spikes and valleys form a definite pattern that never seems to vary. It’s clearly not a healthy pattern, yet it’s quite consistent.’

The older man looked for himself. ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘I wonder what’s going on in there. What kind of mentation, if any.’

‘There’s no evidence of any sense perception,’ the younger man said. ‘No response to sound, touch, or anything else.’

‘But there was in the early phase.’

‘Oh, yes.’ The younger man nodded. ‘Perception was virtually normal at that point. As to what kind of thinking went on, that we can’t measure, because the subject is paralyzed by the changes.’

‘How does he fit the time frame?’

‘From intake? A textbook case,’ the younger man said. ‘The onset of symptoms was within twelve to fifteen hours. Then the first phase of the syndrome lasted pretty much unchanged for about two to three weeks. Then we had the dramatic dip in brain function, leading to coma after another week. The first physical changes didn’t occur until coma was well under way.’

‘I find that fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘How do you account for it?’

‘I can’t,’ replied the younger man. ‘Not even our own research explains the details of it. The precise curve of the paralysis, the changes at the cellular level, and their sequelae – it will take a lot of research to objectify all that.’

‘Well,’ the older man said thoughtfully, ‘that’s the way it goes sometimes. Most of the time, in fact. Psychiatrists never did understand why shock treatment works as it works. Most drugs, too – you get your desired result, you watch for side effects, and sometimes you never know the real mechanism.’

The younger man nodded. ‘In any case, we’re seeing a great consistency in the timing of the onset and progress. Almost like clockwork. Faster in children, somewhat faster in women.’

‘Let’s look at the main map.’

The younger man turned on a video monitor connected to a mainframe computer. A special program had been designed to assay the various tissue groups, always with specific reference to one molecular factor. The present display showed the bone marrow.

‘As you see,’ the doctor said, pointing to the screen, ‘our change is in place.’

‘Excellent,’ the older man observed.

‘The modifications are reflected clearly at the cellular level. You can’t entirely extrapolate from this to the symptoms – our knowledge doesn’t extend that far – but a glance at the numbers makes it obvious. The body is giving itself different instructions. The cells are trying to follow them, but of course the body isn’t made to do that. So you have massive dysfunction, starting at the cognitive level and spreading through all the systems.’

‘I see.’ The older man looked from the screen to the experimental subject in the bed. ‘The skeletal was affected from the start, but not visible until now.’

‘That’s correct. The biopsies we did on this subject made that very clear.’

‘Fascinating,’ the older man said. ‘The mystery of life.’

‘Yes, sir. Life’s attempt to adjust itself to changes.’

‘Kind of makes you wonder whether there is a God after all,’ the older man said. ‘Only a transcendent power could design something so subtle.’

The younger man nodded a bit uncomfortably.

The older man pointed to the sheet. ‘Let’s have a closer look.’

The younger man pulled the sheet up from one side, folding it over the subject’s chest. The left hand was revealed, grossly distended and already considerably distorted. The skin was darkened, and already harder than healthy cartilage.

The older man lifted the arm from the elbow to get a better look. The fingers were still identifiable, though they were losing definition. What had once been the fingernails seemed to have fused with the hardened skin tissue.

‘Amazing,’ the older man said. ‘Like chitin, isn’t it?’

‘To the touch, yes,’ the younger man said. ‘But the cell structure is closer to what we see in human bone or cartilage.’

‘An amazing effect,’ the older man said. ‘Let’s see the foot.’

He bent to look at the left foot, whose distention and distortion exceeded that of the hand. The toes were enlarged, hardened, and beginning to lose definition. The heel and toes were being pulled together by the progressive deformation, fusing gradually into a single hard platform.

‘Pretty clear morphological difference from the hand,’ the older man said.

‘Definitely,’ nodded his companion. ‘Just as you will see a differentiation in any hoofed animal from the rear to the front.’

The older man tapped the sole of the foot with his knuckle. A dry, hollow sound emerged.

‘Fascinating,’ the man observed, ‘how consistent it is, from subject to subject.’

‘Oh, yes. It never varies. It’s the signature of the syndrome,’ the younger man said. ‘Quite amazing.’

The older man smiled. ‘I wonder what they’ll call it,’ he said. ‘When they get around to it.’

The younger man shrugged. ‘That’s not my department.’

‘I hope they pick something with a little poetry in it,’ the older man said with a smile. ‘Something people will remember.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The younger man nodded a bit weakly.

‘By the way,’ the older man said, ‘I heard we had a small accident yesterday.’

‘That’s right.’ His companion nodded. ‘It was a computer glitch. One of the special files leaked out into the network.’

‘What was the young man’s name again?’

‘Lightfoot. Damian Lightfoot.’

‘He wasn’t security, was he?’

‘No, sir. Just a computer tech. Trash management. He reported the file because he wasn’t familiar with the name.’

‘No problem about disposal?’ the older man asked. ‘Family? Colleagues?’

‘Security took care of it already. There won’t be a body. He simply disappeared.’

‘Good.’ The older man was shaking his head. ‘But we can’t allow leaks, no matter how small. I want the system redesigned immediately. An accident like that should have been discovered within the loop. Company population is just as dangerous as general population.’ He gave the younger man a sharp look. ‘Get on it with your people this afternoon.’

‘I’ll do that, sir.’

The older man stood looking at the subject in the bed. His frown faded, eclipsed by his enthusiasm for the project.

‘Something with poetry,’ he repeated. ‘Like the Black Plague …’




16


The White House

November 28



A meeting was held Monday evening in the Oval Office.

Present were the president and his top aides, along with chief of staff Dick Livermore, who had been the president’s campaign manager in the general election two years ago. Also present were the party chairman and the majority leader.

The president greeted those present with an uncharacteristically grave face.

‘I know you’re all concerned first and foremost about Danny,’ he said. ‘I saw him this afternoon at Walter Reed, and I spoke at some length with Dr Isaacson. There isn’t any good news to report. Danny’s condition hasn’t improved. His vital signs are still okay, but mentally he’s nonfunctional.’

The president had taken off his suit jacket and was resting his muscular forearms on the table. He did not like jackets or long-sleeved shirts; they made him feel constrained. For nearly twenty years his campaign ads had shown him in short-sleeved shirts with his tie loosened. Though some thought it was a PR gimmick intended to make him look hardworking, the fact was he actually dressed that way.

In answer to the polite murmurs of inquiry from those present, the president shook his head.

‘I think we’d better look to the bottom line on this,’ he said. ‘There may be hope for Danny from a medical viewpoint, but even if he gets better, this episode will be too great a negative for us to overcome, given the polls and our other problems.’

The chief PR consultant raised a hand. ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ he said. ‘The media are already on to the fact that Danny is catatonic. We couldn’t overcome that in a fight against Goss.’

The president nodded. ‘The first order of business, then, is for me to choose someone else as soon as decently possible. With Goss gaining in the polls we can’t let the grass grow under our feet.’

It was well known that the president loathed Colin Goss and would do anything in his power to keep Goss out of the White House. The president couldn’t say anything publicly about Goss at this sensitive time, but he had told more than one close associate that he believed Goss was a potential Hitler. ‘If he ever gets into the Oval Office,’ he once said, ‘he’ll make Nixon look like a wise king.’

A few moments were spent discussing when and how to announce the dropping of Dan Everhardt as vice president and the selection of a replacement. Then the real problem came to the fore. Who could replace Everhardt?

The president turned the floor over to Bob Corrigan, the party chairman.

‘I have a list here,’ Bob said. ‘We’ve gone over this with the president already, but I want your collective take on it. I give the names in no particular order.’ He cleared his throat a bit nervously. ‘The first is Kirk Stillman.’

‘Isn’t he too old?’ someone said.

There was a silence. Kirk Stillman was one of the most distinguished statesmen alive. A cabinet officer under three presidents and currently ambassador to the United Nations, Stillman was the Averell Harriman of his time. A specialist in foreign policy with superb contacts in all the major European governments, Stillman was all but indispensable to his party.

But Stillman was sixty-four years old, and looked it. With his silver hair and elder-statesman demeanor, he seemed more an icon of the past than a leader for the future.

‘He’s respected,’ someone said unenthusiastically.

‘But he’s a little too old.’ It was Bob Corrigan who said this. ‘It would send the wrong message.’

Heads nodded in agreement. Stillman was associated in the public mind with the policies of the past. Policies that had failed to anticipate or prevent the current crisis.

After a few minutes Stillman was ruled out. Though he would make a superb vice president and could, in a pinch, ably take over as an interim president, he would be a public relations liability. The president needed a nominee with a more aggressive image. Someone younger, stronger.

‘The next name,’ Corrigan said, ‘is Cary Hunsecker.’

There was a beat of silence.

‘He’s a good man,’ someone said.

‘Solid,’ echoed another voice.

Those present seemed troubled. There was good reason for this. Cary Hunsecker, serving his second term as governor of Rhode Island, had the image of strength and dash that a man like Kirk Stillman lacked. An avid sailboater who had competed in the Americas Cup and nearly won, Hunsecker was tanned and handsome.

But Hunsecker had sexual skeletons in his closet. His marriage to the daughter of a wealthy Rhode Island industrialist was emotionally barren. Hunsecker had had many affairs over the years, and showed a preference for younger females. A former campaign worker had threatened to file a paternity suit against him a decade ago, but had been talked out of it by influential Hunsecker friends.

So far the public knew nothing of this aspect of Hunsecker’s life. But it would be foolish to suppose Hunsecker could face the cruel spotlight of the media as a potential vice president without having his past exposed. The press was not as easy to manipulate today as it had been a generation ago. The experiences of Bill Clinton, Bob Livingston, and others left no doubt about this.

‘Too dangerous,’ said someone. Heads nodded in assent. Hunsecker was out.

‘Okay,’ Corrigan said. ‘Before I proceed to the next name, I wonder if any of you has a suggestion.’

‘What about Mike Campbell?’ one of the staffers threw in.

‘In eight years,’ someone replied immediately.

‘I’m not so sure,’ the staffer said. ‘He’s solid with the public, and he’s got so many positives …’

‘You mean the Olympics?’ someone asked. Michael Campbell’s heroism in winning two Olympic gold medals despite serious back problems was universally known.

‘And his wife,’ someone else added. Susan Campbell was the darling of American women. No other American politician had a wife whose own popularity could help as much at the polls.

‘She could detract just by being so visible,’ a third voice added. ‘And don’t forget, they’re childless. That could be a negative at this level.’

‘Yeah, but she’s kept her figure.’

‘I’ll take that negative any time.’ Laughter greeted this remark.

The president was shaking his head. ‘Goss would label him a punk,’ he said. ‘I don’t think we could get away with it.’

His comment brought general assent. Michael Campbell was simply too young to take over as vice president. His youth would be perceived as a weakness, and would be sold that way by the Goss forces. The nominee had to project strength, experience, and wisdom.

‘I like Mike,’ said the president, ‘but putting him up too early might be as bad for his future as for us. It’s too risky.’

Heads nodded in agreement. Campbell was out.

‘There is only one name left,’ Corrigan said tiredly. ‘Tom Palleschi.’

The others brightened. Tom Palleschi was the current secretary of the interior and former governor of Pennsylvania. Palleschi had been a cabinet officer under two presidents, one from each party. That was part of his appeal, the fact that he had served both parties successfully over the years. He got along with everybody, was a hard worker, and enjoyed excellent popularity with the public.

Another plus for Palleschi was that he was a self-made multimillionaire in business. He had built his father’s one-man metalworking business into a precision tool empire before selling it to a German consortium when he first went into politics. He could credibly compare his own business experience to that of Colin Goss. No one could accuse Palleschi of being a bleeding heart.

Palleschi was a strong man of fifty-two with lively salt-and-pepper hair, a thick wrestler’s body, and a winning smile. He could be seen jogging around Washington every morning from six to seven, sometimes with a friend or colleague but often alone. A few years ago he had endorsed an orthopedically advanced running shoe in a series of TV commercials, donating the money he made to a children’s hospital in his hometown of Scranton.

Had it not been for the great popularity of Dan Everhardt, Tom Palleschi might have been the president’s choice for his running mate five years ago. True, Palleschi was a bit too ethnic in his appeal. A Catholic, he was the father of six children and devoted a lot of his time to Italian-American causes. Not that this was a serious negative, but it did limit his performance in the demographic polls. He was a bit more popular with ethnic minorities than with WASPs. He knew little about terrorism and was not thought of as politically ‘tough.’ He was a peacemaker, appealing but not quite as forceful as the party would have liked.

Palleschi would make a fine choice to replace Dan Everhardt. He projected not only wisdom and experience, but also physical strength – a necessity at this moment when fear of illness was sweeping the nation.

‘I like this choice,’ said Corrigan.

‘So do I,’ the president agreed. ‘I’ve worked with Tom in the past, and he’s steady as a rock.’

These remarks brought general assent. Tom Palleschi was like another Dan Everhardt, but with a slightly different profile. He looked the part of a popular vice president. He also looked the part of president of the United States, if one added a brush stroke or two to his image.

Best of all, there was not a breath of scandal about Palleschi. His business career was spotless, and so was his personal life. He was faithful to his wife and devoted to his family.

For the next twenty minutes Palleschi’s strengths and weaknesses were weighed by those present. But the palpable air of relief in the room left little doubt he would be the president’s choice. A good choice.

‘Let’s float it around town,’ the president concluded. ‘Meanwhile I’ll call Tom and bring him in.’

On this note the meeting ended. The White House strategists were pleased. It was possible to chalk off Dan Everhardt’s illness as a medical emergency and a personal tragedy. But Everhardt’s loss need not cripple the administration. Palleschi made up for Everhardt.

That is, assuming Palleschi accepted the job.




17


Manchester, New Hampshire

November 28



The health authorities in Adelaide refused to talk to Karen, despite her recommendation from Dr Roper in the outback. They seemed cold and evasive, and distinctly unhappy to have heard from her.

This made her next mission all the more important. She retraced the route of her daylong flight to Australia, with one key difference. Instead of returning to Washington she flew to Boston and took a commuter flight to New Hampshire.

The connection she was pursuing was tenuous. Tenuous enough, she hoped, that the American authorities would not have followed it up yet. It came from an online service she subscribed to that collected police reports on homicides, suicides, and unexplained deaths from all over the United States. The deaths were cross-indexed under various headings, including parts of the body. Karen’s routine search of ‘hands and feet’ had rung a bell in New Hampshire.

She was right. When she arrived at the small city hall office of the chief medical examiner, she found him willing to talk about the body that had been discovered a few days earlier, and even willing to show it to her.

His name was Dr Waterman, and he was surprisingly young and handsome. She saw photographs of an attractive wife and two young daughters on the bookshelf behind his desk. He offered her coffee, but she refused.

‘I’ve been on airplanes most of the last few days,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough coffee to last me a year.’

‘I was thinking that you looked tired,’ the doctor smiled. ‘I kind of assumed you journalists don’t get a lot of sleep.’

‘That depends on the journalist,’ Karen said. ‘As for myself, I don’t sleep much. You’re right on that score.’

‘I sleep almost eight hours a night,’ he said. ‘No medical examiner is in a great hurry to get to his office in the morning, as you might imagine.’

‘Tell me about the body we talked about on the phone,’ Karen said.

‘It’s strictly a John Doe,’ he said. ‘No trace of identification. The few distinguishing marks, moles and such, were no help. We took impressions of the teeth and sent them off to the computers, but there wasn’t a match.’

‘Who found the body?’

‘A local homeless man named Erroll. A mental patient who was thrown out on the street when they cut back at the state hospital. He found the body in a Dumpster. At first the police weren’t inclined to believe him. He’s severely delusional, very florid. He thinks Martians are sending messages through his skin, stuff like that. But the body was right where he said it was. When the cops saw the deformations, they called me right away.’

He stood up. ‘Want to see it?’

‘Absolutely.’ Karen got up to follow him.

‘You’re not squeamish about bodies, are you?’ he asked.

‘No problem.’

He took her to one of the autopsy rooms. He left her to wait alone while he went to find the body. He returned with an assistant who was pushing a gurney.

The assistant unzipped the body bag. Thankfully, the smell that emerged from the corpse when he pulled down the zipper was essentially formaldehyde, reminding her of her lab days at college.

The face of the body was like that of any cadaver, gray and expressionless, the features slack.

‘Caucasian male, about forty,’ Dr Waterman said.

As he pulled the bag aside, Karen saw the distorted hands.

‘Hardened, fused,’ she said.

‘Correct. More like modified cartilage than skin.’ The doctor picked up one of the hands. ‘I’ve never seen anything remotely like it.’

I have. Karen was thinking that the corpse’s hands were almost identical in appearance to the hands of the victims in Australia. She did not volunteer what she knew.

‘Have you done tissue studies?’ she asked.

‘Informally, on my own, yes. I probably shouldn’t have – the big shots in Atlanta will want complete control – but I couldn’t resist. It’s not normal tissue. I’m not enough of a cell biologist to understand it, but I do know that in all my years of tissue biopsies I’ve never seen changes like this.’

He showed her the feet. Just as in Australia, the digits were distorted and partially fused, and the heel and sole had pulled together in a hooflike shape. Death had done nothing to alter the distinctive, troubling look of the foot.

‘I’ve checked my medical books,’ he said. ‘No luck. I can’t find a disease, no matter how rare, that has this feature.’

Karen felt a suspicious throb of lightheadedness as she studied the corpse. It occurred to her rather remotely that she hadn’t had much to eat in the last three days.

Before she could complete the thought her eyes began to roll up in her head. Her lips and hands tingled. She tried to steady herself against the gurney, but failed.

The doctor caught her before she could fall to the floor.



She came to in his office, lying on a deep leather couch. He was standing over her with a glass of water in his hand. She felt horrible. Her head ached intensely, her stomach was queasy, and she felt too dizzy to sit up.

‘I’m embarrassed,’ she said.

‘Don’t be,’ he smiled. ‘It happens all the time here.’

‘It really wasn’t the body, so much,’ she said weakly. ‘I’ve been on airplanes for the last three or four days. I’m jet-lagged.’

He smiled indulgently. ‘Yes, that would do it too.’

He revived her with water followed by strong coffee. He insisted that she remain lying on the couch. He was surprised to see her pursue her story even in her weakened state.

‘You reported this to the state health authorities?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘I copied my e-mail to the CDC in Atlanta. Nobody got back to me. Either they’re swamped, or it’s a bureaucratic thing. A snafu.’

‘I’d like to ask you to do me a favor,’ Karen said. ‘Can you keep a lid on this for another twenty-four hours while I check out a couple of things?’

‘Well, I don’t know,’ the doctor said. ‘We’re supposed to report anything out of the ordinary.’

‘You’ve already reported it,’ Karen said. ‘All I’m asking is that you sit tight for one day. There are people at the federal level who need to know about this.’

‘Which people?’

Karen was thinking of Joseph Kraig. But she didn’t want to mention any names. She knew this story was in danger of being classified within hours. She needed to get to the core of it before that happened.

‘I’d better not mention any names,’ she said. ‘But I promise to get back to you by tomorrow at this time.’

He shrugged. ‘All right. I can wait.’

‘And put this body somewhere safe,’ Karen said. ‘Don’t let it disappear.’

‘Aren’t you being a little paranoid?’ he asked.

Karen smiled. ‘Humor me. There may be aspects of this thing that could be embarrassing to some people. You never know.’

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll put it somewhere safe.’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow,’ Karen said. ‘I promise. Right now I have to fly back to Washington.’

‘Are you sure you’re well enough?’ the doctor asked. ‘You look like you could use a night’s sleep.’

‘I’ll sleep on the plane.’

‘Let me get you something to eat before you go. Honestly, you look pretty weak. There’s a restaurant right in the next block.’

Karen realized he found her attractive. He was a young man, after all. No doubt her fainting spell had endeared her to him. In his specialty he would not often have the opportunity to take care of living people, much less young and attractive women.

If she agreed to go with him it would delay her departure for Washington by an hour. On the other hand, it might bind the handsome young doctor to her sufficiently to make him keep his word about the body.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘That’s nice of you.’

She felt a bit woozy as she got to her feet.

‘Careful,’ he said, taking her arm. ‘Let me help you.’




18


Plainview, Texas

November 28

12:40 P.M.



The Reservoir was controversial.

Its maintenance was paid for by state taxes as well as local fees, but local residents felt the state could not be trusted to maintain it properly. Leaks had been discovered in some of the retaining walls since the last election, and the state had been slow to repair them. Experts hired by the county government determined that the purification equipment was out of date. The state sent in its own experts, who held that the equipment met all federal standards and would not need to be replaced for twenty years.

The reservoir was crucial to the community because rainfall was an irregular thing in these parts, and drought could hit when it was least expected. Farmers joined local homeowners in putting constant pressure on both the county and state to enlarge and modernize the reservoir.

Today three small boys, all fifth-graders, had climbed the fence and were sailing toy boats on the rippled surface of the water. They had observed the maintenance building long enough to determine that the staff was out for lunch.

The boats floated jerkily on the water, pushed this way and that by gusts of wind.

‘I dare you to jump in,’ said the tallest of the boys, whose name was Ethan.

‘You’re crazy,’ said the others. ‘It’s freezing.’

‘If I go first,’ Ethan said, ‘that means you two have to go too.’

‘Bullshit,’ said the boy named George. ‘Does not.’

‘Does too.’

‘Does not.’

The smallest boy seemed impressed by the dare, but not willing to jump into the frigid water.

‘There, look.’ Ethan was pointing at his sailboat, which was floating away toward the deep center of the reservoir. ‘If I jump in, you two have to go too.’

He pulled off his jacket, slipped out of his running shoes, and leaped into the water.

‘Jesus!’ he cried as the coldness enveloped him. But he began to swim toward the drifting boat, his arms flailing.

‘Get out of there!’ the other two shouted. ‘You’re crazy!’

‘You faggots!’ Ethan called. ‘You pussies! I’m gonna sink your boats.’

He had almost reached the boat when he saw the object.

It was transparent, a globe about eight inches in diameter. It was floating a few feet from him. It would have been invisible had he not chanced to come directly upon it. The blue sky was reflected on its upper surface.

‘Hey,’ he said, more to himself than to the others. He trod water, edging closer to the floating globe. The others, on shore, could not see it.

‘Hey, this is cool,’ he called, turning to look at his friends. ‘Hey, I found something.’

George and Andrew shouted in unison, ‘What?’

‘A thing – a globe.’ Ethan stretched out his right hand to touch the object, still treading water. His finger, already chilled by the water, touched the globe’s surface. It felt like plastic.

‘Hey, you guys,’ he called. ‘Wait till you see what I found. If you only had the guts …’

He swam behind the object and gave it a push toward shore, intending to guide it to his friends. To his surprise, the surface of the globe was brittle and seemed to crack at his touch.

‘Hey!’ He patted the globe again to push it toward shore. The outer surface crumbled like a layer of ice. For an instant he saw something inside and reached to touch it. It was a viscous mass, colorless. Even as he felt it on his hand it dissolved. The shards of the globe were nowhere to be found. They also had dissolved.

‘Damn it,’ Ethan said. ‘Fuck.’

‘What is it?’ called George. ‘What’s going on?’

Ethan now remembered his mission and made a show of sinking his friends’ boats. Claiming that he was used to the water, he swam around in front of his friends for a good five minutes, pushing the boats this way and that as he shouted insults at those less brave than he.

Then the chill of the water began to penetrate his young body, and he came in to shore.

‘There’s no towels or anything,’ said George. ‘You’re gonna get sick.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Ethan. ‘I’m not going to get sick.’

A few moments later the boys were gone, their cries echoing over the water.



Cuernavaca, Mexico



6 P.M.



Stray dogs were everywhere.

They clustered around the tourist buses in packs, whimpering for a handout. The tourists, all Anglos, watched with distaste as ragged children kicked and punched at the dogs to get at the bus windows.

‘Señor, Señora, money, money, money!’

‘Amigos, bienvenidos!’

‘Layee, give me money!’

The contrast between the crisp mountain air of the town and the fetid odors of dirty children, pariah dogs, and cooking was bizarre. In the distance the snowcapped peak of Popocatépetl could be seen, pine forests gracing its slopes. The other volcano, Ixtacihuatl, was hidden by clouds.

The tour company had obviously picked one of the most squalid tourist areas to stop at first. One good-humored woman was pointing a video camera at the children, who laughed in delight and cut capers before her. The other tourists, tired from their voyage, sat dully, their eyes half closed.

The tour director made a halfhearted effort to shoo away the dogs and children, then began herding the tourists off the bus and toward the restaurant, which was incongruously named Le Café Américain.

The restaurant’s owner had come out to greet the tourists. A short, heavyset man wearing a white apron, he was the first to see the plane.

It was a small one-engine plane, apparently a crop duster. It was flying back and forth over the valley, the drone of its engine almost drowned out by the clamor of the children and the barking of the dogs.

A couple of the tourists followed the direction of his gaze and looked at the plane. Then, like the others, they were distracted by their own concern to get into the restaurant without being besieged by the children.

The driver, a mustachioed Mexican wearing a faded dungaree jacket despite the intense heat, waved the children away halfheartedly. He stood by the door of the bus, helping the female passengers down onto the dusty street. He kicked savagely at a stray dog, which yelped and limped away.

‘Watch your step, please.’

He noticed the plane, which, crisscrossing the valley, was now emitting a trail of spray that settled languidly onto the fields. He reached into his pocket reflexively for a cigarette, then remembered the passengers and waited until the bus was empty.

The driver and the restaurant owner fought off the dogs and children until the last of the tourists was inside the restaurant. Then the driver offered the other man a cigarette. They used the same match. For a moment they stood side by side in silence, gazing out over the valley.

‘Chingar,’ said the driver. ‘What’s with the plane?’

‘Government bullshit,’ replied the restaurant owner. ‘Trying to impress the gringos, something.’

‘Crop duster,’ the other man shook his head. ‘There are no crops where he is except cactus.’

‘And the arroyo.’

‘The last part of it, sí. Hardly more than a trickle at this time of year.’

‘Another way to waste our money.’ The restaurant owner took a long drag on his cigarette, then unwillingly threw it in the gutter. ‘Hasta luego, amigo. Have to feed the animals,’ referring to the tourists.

The driver watched the children converge noisily on the discarded cigarette. Then he climbed into the overheated tour bus to get out of the sun.

The plane had banked toward the town and now circled above the narrow streets in the thirsty dusk, occasionally trailing threads of mist.




19


Alexandria, Virginia

November 28



Karen got back to her apartment late in the evening. She had left her car in the long-term lot at the airport and driven home through light traffic.

She was drained. Her jet lag had reached incalculable proportions, and the mental exhaustion of pursuing such a difficult story was taking its toll.

She was beginning to wonder whether it was all real. Perhaps she was tilting at windmills again. True, a lot of people were sick, including the vice president of the United States. Others were dead. But were they all victims of the same disease?

The symptoms of the illness were bizarre. So was the pattern of the spread. It didn’t make much sense. But did that mean there was a conspiracy afoot? Perhaps there was a simple and logical explanation for everything.

Karen poured herself a drink – the first really stiff one she had had since she left home – and took a long swallow before peeling off her clothes. She left the drink on the kitchen counter and unpacked her suitcase. She emptied the hamper, threw all the dirty clothes into the washer, and started the cycle. She walked naked into the bedroom and looked in the drawer where she kept her bras and panties. No panties – they were all dirty.




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