White (44 page)

“Please,” he said, exasperated, cutting the Russian off. “No, we did not predict this exact response. To be honest, I expected more. None of it matters. They are in a box. The only weapon that matters now is the virus, and we control that. The game has been played perfectly by all accounts.” He stood. “I'm sure you're eager to complete our arrangements for the antivirus. Soon enough, but I am needed elsewhere at the moment. If you need anything over the next few hours, please don't hesitate to ask.”

He left them without a backward glance. It was the last time he intended to see any of them.

Fortier walked evenly down the hall. For years he had rehearsed this day. He'd pored over his own graphs and debated possibilities ad infinitum. The outcome had always been certain. He'd always known that if he could get his hands on the right virus, the world would be his to manipulate.

But he'd never actually lived through stakes so high. For the first time he looked at the reports pouring over the television monitors and wondered what he had done.

He'd done what he'd set out to do, of course.

But what had he really done? Over six billion people were infected with a lethal virus that would kill them within the week if his antivirus wasn't distributed within the next forty-eight hours.

His thrill was barely manageable.

He'd read once that Hitler had frequently experienced profound physical reactions to the elation he felt when exercising his power. He'd exterminated six million Jews. Who could have imagined the power that Armand now held in his hand?

God.

But there was no god. For all practical purposes, he was God.

Fortier stepped into a small room at the end of the hall and picked up a black phone.

He was experiencing the exuberance of a god. But with the power came immeasurable responsibility, and it was this that caused him to wonder what he had done. Just as God must have wondered why he'd created humans before sending a flood to wipe them out.

It was a beautiful thing, this power.

Svensson picked up on the first ring. “Yes?”

“Issue the order and meet me in Marseilles.”

The distribution of the antivirus was one of the most complex elements of the entire plan. In most cases, those who ingested the antivirus would do so without knowing they had. It had already been administered to a number of key individuals in their drinks or their bread. In most cases, the elect would be called with some mundane excuse to a remote distribution point, where they would unknowingly inhale a localized air-borne strain. They would leave destined to survive. The risk of the anti-virus landing in the wrong hands would pass in less than twenty-four hours. By then, even if someone got hold of it, he wouldn't have time to manufacture or distribute it.

“No problems?” Svensson said.

“Carlos has turned. He's on his way here.”

The phone was silent. They had prepared two installations for this final phase, one in Paris, one in Marseilles on the southern coast of France. No one except the two of them knew about Marseilles. It was now all over but the waiting.

“He's no idiot,” Svensson said.

“Neither am I,” Fortier said. “Remember, no evidence. Leave the anti-virus in the vault.”

41

T
he riots had fallen apart on two counts. The word that the United States had traded its nuclear arsenal for the antivirus and then summarily sent that arsenal to the bottom of the ocean had sent a shock wave across the nation. The news jockeys and political pundits might have spent countless hours dissecting the implications, but another, greater urgency trumped even this stunning bit of news.

The virus had struck.

With a vengeance.

Millions of people in America's urban centers helplessly watched the red spots spread over their bodies. No amount of anger or saber rattling could make these symptoms vanish. Only the antivirus could.

But the antivirus was on its way, Mike Orear insisted. The president had stood on the steps of the Capitol and declared their victory to the world. Hope was not dead. It was being shipped at this very moment, ready to be whisked to the gateway cities, where it would be infused with the blood banks. Within a matter of days, every resident of North America would have the antivirus.

Thomas had followed the news over a secure microwave receiver at twenty thousand feet above the Atlantic. America was holding its collective breath for an antivirus that would not work.

They collected him from the
Nimitz
and streaked back into the sky without offering any answers to his questions. Worse, they declined his request to speak to the president. Not that it mattered—they were in the final throes of a hopeless death anyway. He sat with his hands between his knees, listening to the speculations and calculations and ramifications or possibilities and inconsistencies until he was sure his heart had fallen permanently into his stomach.

The game was over. In both realities.

The fighter settled in for a landing at BWI. Baltimore.

Maryland. Johns Hopkins?

They transferred him to a helicopter. Once more he was denied information as to the nature of his sudden recall to the country. Not because they were hiding anything from him—they simply didn't know.

But his guess that they were taking him to Johns Hopkins proved inaccurate. Twenty minutes later the chopper set down on the lawn adjacent to Genetrix Laboratories.

Three lab technicians met the chopper. Two took his arms and hurried toward the entrance. “They're waiting for you inside, sir.”

Thomas didn't bother asking.

The moment he stepped into the building, all eyes were on him, from the foyer, through a large room filled with a dozen busy workstations, to the elevator, which they entered and descended. They had heard of him. He was the one who'd brought this virus on them.

Thomas ignored their stares and rode down three floors before stepping out of the elevator into a huge control room.

“Thomas.”

He turned to his left. There stood the president of the United States, Robert Blair. Next to him, Monique de Raison, Theresa Sumner from the CDC, and Barbara Kingsley, health secretary.

“Hello, Thomas.” He turned around. Kara walked up to him. Sweat glistened on her face, but she smiled bravely. “It's good to see you,” she said.

“Kara . . .” He glanced at Monique and Theresa. The rash had covered Theresa's face. Monique's was clear. The president and the health secretary had been infected twelve hours behind them, and their faces were still clear, but the red spots were showing on their necks.

He knew then what they had called him to do. They wanted the dreams. That had to be it. These four wanted to take him up on his suggestion to Kara and Monique that they dream a very long dream using his blood.

“I apologize for the secrecy,” Robert Blair said. “But we couldn't risk word of this getting out.”

Thomas could hardly bear to look at Kara's face. “How are you feeling?”

“I'm fine.”

“Good,” he said. He faced the others. “The rash is taking over. Gains is pretty bad, but I . . . You have to hurry.”

“You're right,” Monique said. “Time is more critical than you can imagine.”

“But you don't need me here. I left the blood for you to dream.”

None of them moved. They just looked at him.

“What's going on?”

Monique stepped forward, eyes bright. “We've found something, Thomas. It could be very good.” Her eyes darted to Kara and back. “And it could also be very bad.”

“You . . . you found an antivirus?”

“Not exactly, no.”

“You notice that neither Monique nor I have the rash, Thomas?” Kara asked.

“That's good. Right?”

“How's that rash under your arm?” Monique asked.

He instinctively touched his side. “I have it . . .” Now that he thought about it, he hadn't felt the itching for some time. He lifted his shirt up and ran his hand over his skin. No sign of the rash.

“You sure that wasn't a heat rash? I think it was.”

Meaning what? He, Monique, and Kara hadn't broken out yet.

“You're virus-free, Thomas.”

Monique turned around and pressed a button on a remote in her right hand. The wall opened, revealing a bank of monitors surrounding a large flat screen. The smaller monitors were filled with charts and data that meant nothing to him. But the huge screen in the center was a map of the world. The twenty-four gateway cities where the virus had initially been released were marked with red dots. Green circles indicated the hundreds of labs and medical facilities around the world that were involved in the search for an antivirus. White crosses marked the massive blood collection efforts that had been underway since news of the virus went public. Small crosses spread out from the gateway cites, indicating smaller collection centers. They had enough blood, he knew that.

But without an antivirus to distribute through the blood, it was useless. “I've run your blood through more tests than I can name in the last twenty-four hours. They showed nothing unusual.” She faced him again. “Honestly, I can't tell you why I decided to test your blood against the virus, but I did.” She paused.

“And?”

“And it killed the virus. In a matter of minutes.”

Thomas blinked. “I'm immune,” he said absently.

He felt Kara's arm slip around his. “Not just you. Monique and I have been in contact with your blood. It killed the virus in both of us.”

He looked at the others. Why the long faces? This was good news.

The president forced a smile. “There's more.”

A faint suggestion presented itself to him, but he rejected it. Still, the thought was enough to flush his face.

“Enough with this melodrama. Just get it out. Why am I immune?”

“I think it was the lake,” Kara said. “You were healed in Elyon's water. It changed your blood.”

“You were in his lake.”

“As Mikil. Not as Kara. Not as me and not in the emerald lake before it dried up. You were there as yourself, in person. And if it wasn't the lake, then it was when you were healed by Justin later, after you had the virus. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

Yes, it was.

“However it happened, there's no question that your blood contains the necessary elements that kill the virus,” Monique said.

“And yours?”

She paused. “No. Not like yours.”

He wasn't sure he liked where this was going.

“You know what it is about my blood that kills the virus?”

“Not entirely, but enough to duplicate it, yes.” She walked to one of the smaller screens. “I isolated various components of your blood, white cells, plasma, platelets, red cells—the virus is reacting to the red cells. I then isolated—”

“I don't care about the science,” Thomas said. The suggestion that had dropped into his mind was reasserting itself, and he suddenly had no patience for this presentation of theirs. “Just cut to the bottom line. You need my blood.”

She turned around. “Yes. Your red blood cells.”

“Something in my red blood cells is acting like an antivirus.”

“More like a virus, but yes. When it comes into contact with normal blood, it spreads at an astounding rate, killing the Raison Strain. I've dubbed it the Thomas Strain.”

Thomas hesitated only a moment.

“Then take my blood. Do you have time to reproduce enough to dis-tribute as planned?”

“It depends,” she said.

“Depends on what?”

She glanced at Barbara Kingsley, who stepped up. “Our plan with the World Health Organization was to collect blood from millions of donors near the gateway cities, categorize and store that blood using every form of refrigeration available, and then prepare it for infusion of the antivirus if and when it was secured. We have the blood, roughly twenty thousand gallons in and around each gateway city.”

“I know all of this. Please, depends on what?”

“Forgive me,” Barbara said. “I just . . . whether we have enough time to use your blood to effectively infect all of the blood collected depends on how much of your blood we use.”

“Infect,” Thomas said, trying to ignore the implications. “You mean turn the collected blood into an antivirus.”

“Yes,” she said. “One of our people put this simulation together.” She pointed the remote at the wall and pressed another button. “The effects of the antivirus in your blood have been dyed white so that we can see them. The simulation runs at an exaggerated speed.”

Thomas watched as red blood, running like a river across the screen, was suddenly overtaken by a dirty white army of white cells from behind. This was his blood “infecting” the red blood.

He blinked at the sight. A picture from his dreams filled his mind. A hundred thousand of the Horde pouring in the canyons below the Natalga Gap. They had been the disease then. Now his blood would be the cure.

“How much do you need?” Thomas asked.

“It depends on how much of the blood we've collected needs to be infused with—”

“How much of the blood you've collected do you need to save the people who've donated it?” Thomas demanded.

“All of it,” Barbara said.

“So then quit dancing around the issue and tell me how much of my blood you need to convert all of it!”

Monique paused.

“Twelve liters,” she finally said. “All of it.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Hook me up. Take twelve liters. You can do a blood transfusion or something, right?”

Monique hesitated and Thomas knew then that he was going to die.

“We have a time problem.”

Kara came to his rescue. “What she's saying, Thomas, is that every hour they delay will cost lives. They've worked it out. The model shows a rough number of ten thousand every hour delayed, increasing exponentially each hour. They need to take as much blood as they can in as short a period of time as they can.”