Mutant (28 page)

6:25 P.M.

Azrhan Doumani’s pulse quickened as he looked into his microscope.

For the last two weeks he’d been thinking like a terrorist. Specifically he’d been trying to imagine how he would advise someone like Saddam Hussein about a way to use bird flu, or H5N1, as a weapon. Not that he intended to. What got him obsessing on the subject was a spate of recent newspaper articles about New York’s problem with the West Nile virus, a pathogen originating in Uganda and previously unknown to the United States until last year. At that time it had infected sixty-nine people in the metropolitan region, killing seven of them, and because the pathogen is transmitted from birds to humans by mosquitoes, the outbreak had set off a controversial program of spraying with insecticides. The discovery of an infected chicken in Queens last week had led to calls for a resumption of spraying, but what interested Azrhan were recent reports that the Iraqi dictator himself had once boasted of having developed a strain of West Nile virus that he would unleash on the United States as a weapon. Nobody believed that he’d actually caused this current problem, including Azrhan, but it got him wondering what this type of fanatic might try and do with bird flu.

Azrhan had been coming into the lab after hours to search through the Rodez slides and electrophoretic gels, trying to find if they held some trace of anything that could be Pierre Gaston’s second secret, the “something even deadlier” hinted at in the letter to Dr. Sullivan. This he’d been doing almost every night since the attack on the laboratory had so poisoned his relationship with his mentor.

For as much as those suspicions hurt, the recent articles about terrorism had forced him to consider the possibility that the hooded men with silencers speaking Farsi suggested a far darker dimension to this business than he or anyone else had ever considered. And after watching her go over segment after segment of the Rodez material to no avail, he figured if he could uncover that second secret when she couldn’t, it would be the first step toward regaining her trust. Because her friendship mattered so much to him, he’d pursue any dark avenue, no matter how disquieting, and endure any amount of work.

And at four A.M. he’d found something. A solitary electrophoretic gel on which the parts of an H5N1 bird flu vector had been spread out also contained a small extra smudge of debris at the bottom of the strip that wasn’t on the other slides. According to the records the sample came from a blade of grass outside a single vent in the Rodez building.

He’d admitted the possibility existed that such an isolated find of extra genetic material could simply be the result of contamination. But since they’d found the attenuated bird flu genes in a similar anomaly, he couldn’t possibly not test it.

And because he’d been thinking like a bioterrorist, he knew exactly what primers he’d use to unlock its secret. Because what would have interested a terrorist had to be the infectivity of the hybrid strain. But they wouldn’t want to rely on a spontaneous recombinant event to produce it, as had happened in Taiwan and Hawaii with the help of genetic vectors. They’d want to make and use the hybrid itself. For what could be
even deadlier
than a genetic vector carrying an already combined, fully viable hybrid strain of human and bird influenza. Theoretically, it could have the killing power of the Spanish flu epidemic.

Fourteen hours ago, as the sun came up, he’d treated the smudge with primers for both bird flu, H5N1, and human influenza, H2N3. “By the dawn’s early light,” he half hummed, half sang as he worked before bedding down on a cot to get some sleep.

This evening his hand trembled as he focused his microscope on the resulting electrophoretic gel.

A pattern of horizontal streaks representing both strains greeted his eyes. He had the hybrid.

He grabbed the phone and punched in the number for Sullivan’s cellular.

“I’m sorry. The person you have dialed is not available. Please leave a message at the beep.”

He immediately tried her private number at home. “She’s not here, Dr. Doumani,” said Lisa. “Left early this afternoon to work on something in the lab with Dr. Steele.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That’s what she told me.”

“But I’m at the lab. She’s not here.”

“Oh, gee! I’m sorry. Maybe they stepped out?”

“No, Lisa, I’ve been here all last night and today. This is very urgent. Do you have any idea where else she could be?”

“Did you try her cell phone?”

“She’s turned it off.”

“Um, well, you say it’s really urgent?”

He sensed something in her question, as if she might have a way of reaching her mother after all. “It’s a matter of life and death, Lisa, I promise you.”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know what to suggest. The only other thing my mother said was that she’d try to be back this evening in time for the fireworks, but couldn’t promise anything.”

It sounds like she’s already enjoying another kind of fireworks, he thought, suspecting that he’d blown the woman’s alibi for a tryst with Steele. There were rumors flying around the building that the night the attack occurred the two had left the lab in a state of undress. “Lisa, you’re sure you can’t reach her?”

“I told you, I can’t.” Her voice had started to waver.

Should I press harder? he was wondering when she added, “Is she in some kind of danger? What’s happened to her—?” Her voice cracked before she could finish.

Damn! Now I’ve frightened her, he thought. I should have known to be more careful. The kid must be a nervous wreck what with two attempts on her mother’s life already. “No, Lisa, she’s not in danger at all. It’s just that I discovered something she’s been looking for.”

“But you said it was ‘life and death.’ ”

“Sorry. I got carried away. It’s just some new genes that I found. I guess you know from your mom how that kind of stuff always is life and death to us geneticists. But still give her the message to phone me right away. She’ll want to know.”

He hung up, wondering who else he should call about this. Racine in France must be told immediately that a genetic weapon might be at the heart of why Gaston was murdered, not an industrial cover-up as he suspects. The Honolulu police also had to be alerted. His thoughts racing, he decided that the quickest way to deal with it all would be to call McKnight and let him handle it. He fished the detective’s card out of his pocket. “Better cops talk to cops,” he muttered, dialing the number. “No one’s going to believe such a wild tale from an Iranian immigrant anyway.”

“The party you have reached is not available right now . . .”

6:57 P.M.

Lisa Sullivan paced nervously by the phone, uncertain about what to do. She’d been trying to reach her mother every five minutes for the last half hour, but repeatedly got only a recording. Why haven’t you checked your messages? she fretted, absently chewing her nails as was her longtime habit. When she passed in front of a mirror and caught herself in the act, she whipped her hand down to her side.

She usually loved the intrigue of playing backup to her mom’s crazy exploits. Today she felt scared and kept thinking of when they’d said good-bye.

“By eleven P.M., if I haven’t called you, phone Detective McKnight and tell him where Dr. Steele and I really are,” her mother had instructed on her way out the door that afternoon.

Dr. Steele had looked surprised, and said, “I thought Patton was going to do that.”

“The man’s become too attached to that lavish lifestyle of his. I don’t think he’s as ready to go to jail for a good cause as he used to be. We can’t rely on someone who might dither about bringing in the police.”

Her mother had then turned to her with a final instruction. “If anyone asks for me, I’m at my lab with Dr. Steele. And there’s two people in particular, should they phone, with whom I want you to be very wary of what you say. One is Greg Stanton—”

“The dean?”

Even Dr. Steele had looked astonished at that.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons, Lisa. Just be warned.”

“And who’s the other?”

On hearing Azrhan Doumani’s name, Lisa had felt even more appalled. “Surely you can’t be serious, Mother.”

“I told you, I have my reasons.”

So what did his calling now and insisting to know her mother’s whereabouts mean? Most of all, could his learning that her mother had seen fit to lie about her destination somehow tip him off that she’d decided to sneak into Agrenomics? She didn’t see how, but the possibility worried her, especially after how insistent her mother had been that he not be told. I’ve got to tell her what’s happened, she kept saying to herself.

Another pass before the mirror caught her chewing at her fingertips again. Instead of stopping this time, she simply changed her route, striding back and forth where she could continue to nibble and avoid being dogged by her reflection.

“Call, damn it,” she muttered. “Get your messages and call me.”

She first became aware of the pain flickering in the core of her skull. Then it seared through her scalp, across the back of her eyes, and down her neck. An instant later the muscles in her arms and legs knotted into spasms from having been restrained so long in one position, but in her semi-awake state she could just sense that they hurt, not understand why.

Only when her eyes shot open and she saw Richard lying motionless beside her did she remember everything that had happened. It rushed through her head with brutal clarity, especially the final seconds—trying to protect herself against the mist, feeling someone yank her up by the hair, seeing Steve Patton hovering over her in a confused blur—the sight of him turning her world upside down the instant before he exploded it into a blaze of white.

Disbelief, horror, confusion—her reactions coursed through her in a single convulsion. He’d tried to kill them! Probably already had with the spray. But it couldn’t be him. Why would he even be a part of what they’d found here?

Her thinking grew more chaotic by the second, crisscrossing over past events, one instant denying what had happened, the next desperate to find not just answers, but some clue, some giveaway she could pinpoint and say, there, I see now what I missed that should have warned he could do this to me. The alternative, that he’d hidden such evil from her so well there’d been no warnings also raced to the forefront of her thoughts. This possibility she shrank from most of all, for it struck directly at the heart of her ability to know or trust anyone.

But as memories ripped through her head, appalling realizations flew at her like shrapnel.

His pressure for results in Honolulu had sent her back to Hacket’s farm for more samples, and into the trap. . . .

All his questions the night she’d learned about the vaccine—he’d been probing her to see how close she’d gotten to figuring out the rest, before he set his goons on her. . . .

His instructions that they lie low and take no action against Agrenomics had effectively sidelined her and Richard for the last two weeks, leaving the place free to pursue what they did here. . . .

His deliberate deceit and the depth of his treachery set her head spinning as everything she ever knew about the man tore itself inside out. She still couldn’t fathom his greater purpose, but became so enraged over his monstrous personal betrayal that the anger congealed her mind into a venomous state of cold logic.

Before I die, I’ll destroy him for this—she pledged, her entire body quivering—and, God help me, stop whatever he’s set in motion. But what is it he’s up to? And why has he chosen to kill Steele and me today, the Fourth of July?

Her thinking of the holiday by its formal name invoked the obvious answer. What better occasion to launch a terrorist attack? A surge of nausea welled up in her throat and held her on the verge of vomiting for what seemed like minutes, until her stomach finally yielded the remains of lunch. The release didn’t help much, making her feel only slightly better from the neck down, but there was no way to purge the mad chaos in her head.

“Richard?” she managed to say, swallowing hard every few seconds to keep her stomach from starting to heave again. “Richard, are you all right? You’ve got to wake up. This is the night they’re going to deploy the genetic weapons we just saw. I’m sure of it.”

He made no reply.

“Richard, listen. Remember all the heightened security prior to New Year’s Eve because of the new millennium? The authorities thwarted several bombing attempts back then. I think this bunch is going for a rematch, trying to humiliate the U.S. on the Fourth of July. It’s why Patton wants us out of the way now.”

Still no answer.

God, how badly hurt is he? Her fear shooting ever skyward, she squirmed near enough to place her head on his chest and satisfied herself that he at least was still breathing. In the process a few links of a chain that they’d padlocked tightly around her waist clanked against the floor. Straining to sit up, she followed it with her eyes and saw where it anchored her to one of the big vats. Richard seemed to be secured in the same way. “Mother of God,” she muttered, flopping back, her skin clammy and her heart pounding so hard she thought it would bruise itself against her ribs.

There’d be no breaking free until Lisa called in the cops. But that wouldn’t be until past eleven, well after the night’s festivities were over. Whatever these creeps had planned, they’d surely take advantage of all the crowds watching the fireworks and release the vectors where they’d do the most damage.

A clock on the wall read 7:10. She shuddered, imagining the hundreds of thousands of spectators who’d already be cramming the length of FDR Drive. Jesus, the attack could start any time now.

How would they carry it out?

For one thing, they’d need sprays for the bird flu. Handheld canisters carried through the throngs could do the job. But it would be a suicide attack unless the people laying down the mist wore protective gear. Helicopters would certainly be better. As for the way they intended to deploy the Ebola, she couldn’t imagine.

Again she racked her brains for why Steve Patton would be involved in such madness. Had he gone insane? Or been mad to begin with? Incongruously, making love with him flashed to mind, and she started to retch once more.

Frightened of choking, she managed to pull herself halfway through a sit-up, then looked about her, attempting to spot anything she might use to help them get free of the chains. Some of the greasy fluid from the mist had congealed into droplets on the tips of her lashes, framing everything she saw with tiny prisms of light. A memory of being with Lisa in a snowstorm, the flakes falling on their eyes and delighting them both with the same glistening effect cut through her like a knife.

How long will I have to prepare her for my death? she wondered. A day? Hours? Fighting back tears, she saw nothing nearby, not even a sharp edge against which she could sever the tape tying her wrists and ankles. The rest of the immense laboratory appeared deserted and was absolutely quiet except for the steady soft noise of Steele’s rising and falling respirations, when from behind her she heard, “Surprised, aren’t you, Kathleen?”

She screamed, jerked her head up and saw Patton ten feet away, leaning against a counter with his arms crossed. He still had on his moon suit and his voice had come through the speakers inside the helmet now hanging off her shoulders. He seemed to have no face, the reflection from his visor hiding the lower half of his features while his round glasses, catching the light as they had in his office two weeks ago, made it impossible to see his eyes. She shrank away from him, as much as her chains would allow.

Chet stood on the front steps of his house watching the crowds stream toward the river. “Let’s go, Martha,” he called back over his shoulder.

“Patience, patience, my boy,” said the housekeeper, picking up their picnic basket and taking an umbrella out of the front closet, just in case. Even though the forecasters hadn’t predicted rain, it had been a steamy, cloud-covered day, and her rheumatism was acting up. “That roof isn’t going anywhere.”

“Yeah, but I want to get a good seat near the edge.”

She stepped out onto the front stoop to join him, pulling the door shut behind her. “We won’t be going too close to any edge.”

Chet grinned at her. They had the same conversation every year, even when his mother was alive, and he usually won out, on condition he let his father keep a restraining arm around him.

Martha worried that the man wouldn’t make it back before the show started. He hadn’t sounded too hopeful about it when he left this afternoon. Not that she believed for one minute that nonsense he told her and Chet about having to work well into the night at Dr. Sullivan’s lab. “Today of all days,” she muttered, convinced the two had decided to check into a hotel somewhere. She would have approved heartily at any other time, but after seeing the disappointment in Chet’s eyes, she took Richard aside and said, “Just when you’re getting somewhere with the boy, you let him down like that.”

He’d simply grimaced and said, “It can’t be helped.”

Chet stepped into the flow of people, and she followed. The sultry air seemed electric, humming with the voices, laughter, and footsteps of not just the hundreds marching down their street, but the hundreds of thousands making their way through blocks and blocks of streets to the north and south of them. Over the city hung an ocher haze, and no breeze stirred the many Stars and Stripes draped from balconies or mounted on rooftops for the occasion.

She kept an eye on him as he pushed ahead of her, his tousled dark hair easy to pick out in the crowd. He’s much taller this year, she thought, treading after him. The observation brought on a whiff of melancholy—a sense of years passing her by, of Chet growing up, of how little time there remained in his boyhood for Richard to bind the wounds that still existed between father and son. She tried to shrug it off, focusing instead on the gaiety around her—the hot dog vendors, the balloons, the people dressed as clowns. Shortly she caught up to where he’d paused to watch a juggler on stilts dressed as Uncle Sam. The delight in her young charge’s eyes made her relax.

Ten minutes later they’d reached the hospital and were riding the elevator to the roof. Some of the other celebrants in the car, mostly doctors, nurses, and orderlies, recognized them.

“Hi, Chet.”

“Boy, have you grown.”

“What are you feeding him, Martha?”

As soon as the doors opened, he raced to the corner that was their usual spot and leaned over the waist-high wall, giving Martha the creeps.

She came up behind him, and, with her hand firmly planted on his shoulder, they surveyed the familiar view together.

Half a dozen barges were moored along the middle of the East River, each bristling with thousands of tubes from which tens of thousands of fireworks would be launched. Below them the FDR already seemed packed to capacity for a mile in either direction, but people continued to swarm up the access ramps. The quay along the river’s edge also seethed with people, their brightly decorated short sleeves, T-shirts, and in some cases bathing suits turning them into a swaying mosaic of colors while calypso music from overhead speakers orchestrated the sinewy movements with a chorus of “Hot! Hot! Hot!”

Chet turned his head and said something to her, but she didn’t catch what it was. The roaring chatter of a huge helicopter passing overhead drowned out his voice.

“Why, Steve?” she asked.

For a few seconds he said nothing, filling the room with a quiet so icy and stifling that she physically felt encased in it. Then he sighed, long and hard, signaling the full extent of his exasperation with her. “To think I lay awake at night, worrying that you’d land a motive for this whole business on my doorstep. Yet here you see everything all laid out”—he abruptly swept his arm in an arc that included half the laboratory, the sudden movement making her jump—“and you still don’t get what I intend to do, or why?” Shaking his head, he turned to a large cardboard box behind him, lifted out a sheaf of papers, and started to sort them on the counter.

His indifference cowed her no less than a raised fist. It also sparked defiance. “Oh, I
get
what you’ve done easily enough. It’s called betrayal—of me, the Blue Planet Society, and judging from the goons running around whom you’ve recruited from places not exactly friendly to Americans, your country. Everything you ever professed to care for, and I want to know why!”

He spun about and covered the distance between them in three strides. Leaning over he grabbed the front of her moon suit and pulled her head to within an inch of his visor. “I’ve betrayed what I cared for?” His voice came through her speakers taut as a piano wire and so high-pitched it squeaked as if he was writing his words with fingernails on a blackboard. “Oh, no, Kathleen. This is my finest hour, my crowning achievement. Had I not acted as I have—
that
would have betrayed my life’s work. No way could I let all our warnings continue to fall on deaf ears while companies like Biofeed went on adding mutated DNA to the food chain of men, women, and children—”