The riveting sequel to PPM
ΩMEGA
Gary Naiman
Smashwords ebook edition published by Fideli Publishing Inc.
Copyright 2012, Gary Naiman
All Rights Reserved.
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License Notes
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ISBN: 978-1-60414-151-1
Cover art by Todd Aune, Spokane, Washington
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to the living spirit of Rachel Carson…
Omega’s predecessor, PPM, Revisited
It is July 27, 2013. Karl Frankton is a pathologist with a CDC field team in Somalia. For two days, they have tried to isolate a virus that has wiped out a village on the Wabi-Shabeelle River. There are no clues, only 84 suffocated villagers.
Worn by fatigue, Karl gets into a heated argument with the team’s leader and is ordered back to Atlanta. Through a liquor-induced nightmare, we learn Karl rose from poor roots to become a promising medical student at Columbia University, only to see his life shattered while attending an FDA research program two years ago. Karl is a disillusioned alcoholic who has lost his family and career because of his accidental discovery of corrupted AIDS test results that cost powerful men a lot of money. If not for the protective deal negotiated by his attorney, Karl Frankton would be a homeless drunk.
At Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport, Karl is intercepted by Parker Hampsted, a government contact who escorts him to a private jet bound for Seattle. There is no explanation. In Seattle, the two men transfer to a military helicopter that flies them to a fishing village on Willapa Bay, near Washington’s picturesque western shore.
Karl is shaken when he is led into a boathouse containing 23 bodies afflicted with the same symptoms as the villagers in Somalia. The virus has struck again, 12,000 miles from its source.
After a day of fruitless testing, the exhausted pathologist walks the shore of Willapa Bay. He stares at the moonlit dock and fishing boats while recalling a similar unsettling moment in Somalia. Something is missing, something very deep.
Concerned with CDC’s refusal to go public about the danger, Karl challenges Hampsted and is ordered back to Atlanta. For the twelfth time in two years, Karl is yanked from an assignment, the worst torture for his scientific mind.
When Karl arrives in Atlanta, he receives a phone call ordering him to Nogales, Mexico to investigate an outbreak of Hanta virus. His protests are met with a stiff warning that this will be his final assignment at CDC. His two-year protective deal has expired.
A bitter man, Karl retreats to his apartment where he opens a court order blocking him from seeing his son. Enraged, he gets drunk and smashes a bottle of scotch against an empty glass frame on the wall, the frame that was to hold his medical degree. He passes out, sobbing for the life that will never be.
With his savings exhausted, Karl has no choice but to follow orders and collect a final paycheck. En route to Nogales, he notices a newspaper article concerning a flu outbreak at the Trinity River near Houston. The military has set up roadblocks and all communications have ceased. The overkill reminds him of Willapa Bay. He clutches the newspaper while recalling his attorney’s warning that his enemies won’t rest until Karl Frankton is a name on a tombstone.
The plane lands in Houston where a chartered aircraft is to transport Karl to Nogales, but Karl doesn’t show up at the gate. He has rented a car and is speeding toward the Trinity River.
Capitalizing on his valid ID, Karl is admitted to the Trinity site by Dr. Mandu Thala, the CDC team leader. Thala is a stellar pathologist known for his global crusade against poverty and disease, but bitter memories have taken a harsh toll on the South African. The devastated site is strewn with 13 body bags, all dead from a lightning assault on their pulmonary systems.
When Thala learns that Karl has seen the Somalia and Willapa Bay sites, he admonishes him for not having found the answer. Karl is stunned by Thala’s warning that the virus has struck eight world sites and is growing geometrically. Time is very short.
Thala’s stinging words are a slap in the face for Karl. There will be no drinking tonight. Karl retreats to the mobile lab to resume his search for the phantom virus.
Thala experiences a nightmare of his family’s torture and death at the hands of Afrikäner police. Soaked in sweat, he awakens to see Karl standing over him. The young pathologist has found the killer. By injecting his own blood into the samples, he has glimpsed the devil through an electron microscope, a chameleon-like parasite that takes on the appearance and characteristics of its host cells after destroying them, visible only for an instant during the transition. But what is it? And where did it come from?
After pummeling the invisible creature with a battery of futile tests, the two scientists conclude it is not a virus, but instead a radioactive mutation beyond anything known.
“Manmade, all the way.”
The following morning, Karl is arrested by Hampsted who lands at the site after tracking down the missing pathologist. As Karl is led into a chopper under guard, he is stunned when Thala reveals nothing. Through a computer search, Thala has discovered that Hampsted is not with CDC, or any government agency. Thala watches the chopper rise into the desert sky while clutching a CD recording of the radioactive killer.
Karl is interrogated at an abandoned military compound in southwest Texas, but reveals nothing. After taking a phone call from Washington, DC, Hampsted orders Karl driven into the desert where agents try to terminate him with a lethal injection. During the violent struggle, the car overturns and bursts into flame, killing the two agents. Karl manages to crawl free of the burning wreckage before losing consciousness.
In the nation’s capital, Jonathan Fletcher wraps up a heated phone conversation with Hampsted. It is midnight and rain spatters against Fletcher’s office window, blurring the Capitol’s lit dome. Fletcher’s PC screen flashes with reports of new outbreaks. He stares at the screen while placing a call to Salzburg, Austria.
In Salzburg, Gunthar Menchen is awakened by his servant. An urgent call has been placed to him from someone named “Johann.” The shaken Austrian fumbles with his cell phone. Johann is Fletcher’s code name.
At first, Menchen tries to allay Fletcher’s concerns, but when he hears the ominous list of crisis sites, he agrees to place a call to “all interested parties.”
At the Trinity site, Thala is relieved of duty and ordered to Atlanta for debriefing. En route to Bush International Airport, he is shaken by a frightening e-mail from Karl —
You’re all I’ve got, Doc. You were right about desperate men doing desperate things. Hampsted’s goons tried to terminate me with a shot of curaré. Car accident saved my life. This thing’s out of control. If we don’t stop it, we’re all going to die. Need you, Doc. Call me at 210-487-9821, at 10 p.m. If I’m wrong about you, I’m a dead man — and so are you — and everyone else.
KF
Fearing for both their lives, Thala dodges Hampsted’s agents and rents a car bound for a motel near San Antonio.
In Salzburg, Menchen conducts a global teleconference with Magnus Schoenfeld and Yoshio Nakashima, two fellow officers of Starburst, a German agricultural conglomerate. The three men express deep concern at the growing number of crisis sites and agree to review their seventeen-year-old “dispersion model.”
In Washington, Fletcher explodes at Hampsted after learning that Karl and Thala have escaped. To add to his grief, Fletcher has received an unsettling phone call from someone named Adams in San Clemente, California. With the situation desperate, Fletcher orders Hampsted to dispatch all three men with “extreme prejudice.”
Thala storms into Karl’s motel room, enraged at being dragged into the mess. His anger subsides when he grasps what has happened. Karl has spent the evening nursing cracked ribs while scouring the government’s data banks with the PC he confiscated from the burned automobile.
The two pathologists pound at their laptops while exchanging bitter stories about bitter lives. With the morning sun beaming through the motel room window, they are ready to give up when something catches Karl’s eye — an obscure treatise on “subatomic transmutation” done eighteen years ago by an eccentric biophysicist named Ringley Adams. The diagram on the PC screen is identical to the radioactive structure in their CD recording.
Thala recalls Adams from a Berkeley medical conference he attended in 1993, and the biophysicist’s insane description of a subatomic discovery that would shatter all known theories. His thoughts are interrupted when the PC screen flashes red. They are being monitored. The two shaken men jump into Thala’s rented car and speed into the desert.
In San Diego, Karl’s ex-wife, Anne, is visited by FBI agents who alert her and her husband, Ralph Moran, that Karl has snapped and may be headed her way. Anne is petrified and readily accepts the FBI’s offer of protection. She is unaware they have been overheard by Karl’s twelve-year-old son, Jeremy, who loves his father deeply.
Jeremy transmits a cryptic e-mail message to Karl using their favorite password named after Jeremy’s pet iguana, Bernie.
The scene shifts to Ringley Adams’ beach house in San Clemente where the aging scientist has concluded a heated phone conversation with Fletcher, demanding ten million dollars for the antidote that can stop the killer. Adams clutches his chest and stares at the TV screen. The outbreaks have reached alarming proportions. Thousands are dying across the globe. Adams bites his knuckle, drawing blood.
Adams is startled by a knock on the door. Karl and Thala have found him through a computer search of CDC’s telecom database. It is too much for Adams who suffers a fatal heart attack and begs God’s mercy while revealing the horrible truth. The invisible killer is Terra-Verde, an environmentally-safe rodenticide that was developed by Starburst to protect its global agricultural interests. When the rats became immune, Starburst panicked and sought Adams’ radioactive creation to disguise their lethal additive — cyanide.
Seventeen years later, Adams has uncovered a flaw that reversed the cyanide’s radioactive decay, creating an undetectable killer that has infected the world’s oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams. The concentrations have reached lethal parts per million (P.P.M.), accentuated by deadly cyanide gas emissions at temperatures exceeding 78 degrees. In short, the planet is becoming a gas chamber, its victims, the human race. The only hope is the small flask of purple liquid in Adams’ lab, his eleventh hour attempt to perfect an antidote.
Shaken by Adams’ revelation, the two scientists find a box of letters in Adams’ closet concerning Starburst and a man called Menchen. They speed away from Adams’ beach house seconds before Hampsted’s choppers land on the sand. As they race toward San Diego, Karl recalls the uneasiness he felt in Somalia and Willapa Bay, and he finally knows what was missing at the outbreak sites.
“There were no rats. They were all dead.”
With panic spreading across the globe, the President calls an emergency conference of health officials, scientists, homeland security, and the military. Over five thousand are dead and the invisible menace is out of control. The most ominous warning comes from Raquel Carson, foremost biophysicist and ecologist of our time.
“Unchecked, the virus will exterminate the human race within one year.”
While she speaks, Karl and Thala cower on a beach in La Jolla, their assassins closing on them under orders from Jonathan Fletcher, Director of Operations, CDC.
With the jaws tightening, Karl contacts a San Diego news anchor, Milton Sarvan, who reluctantly agrees to an exchange of the documents linking Adams, Starburst, and the government. Fearing the worst, Karl pays an unexpected visit to his son under the noses of the FBI and Jeremy’s mother and stepfather. After an emotional reunion with his father, Jeremy sneaks back to his house carrying a small package, a birthday gift from his dad.
In San Diego, Sarvan betrays Karl and Thala after being warned they are part of a terrorist plot to corrupt the world’s water supply, the ultimate story for the egocentric news anchor. Smelling fame and fortune, Sarvan lures Karl and Thala into a trap set by Hampsted. They are captured and driven to a deserted shack below Mt. Palomar. Sarvan’s reward is a bullet in the head.
At his Georgetown home, Fletcher is elated when he hears the news. He assures Hampsted that he will be generously rewarded for eliminating the two men that endanger Starburst’s cover-up. With the hush money Fletcher will get from Starburst, he can finally escape the bureaucracy and set up his wife and sons for the rest of their lives. Perhaps an estate in Austria where his family can mingle with the Menchens. He smiles and sips his martini.
Fletcher’s dreams of grandeur are shattered by his wife’s agonizing screams. He rushes toward the stairs and hears other screams coming from the neighbors. It’s a hot night in Georgetown — over 78 degrees. The Potomac has reached critical mass and hell has broken loose in Washington, DC. Fletcher clutches his throat and listens to the cries of his dying family.
At Mt. Palomar, Hampsted receives word of the devastation in the nation’s capital. Undaunted, he clutches the confiscated box of letters and blood samples while his men prepare to terminate Karl and Thala.
To hell with Fletcher. With the evidence in his possession, Hampsted can strike his own deal with Starburst while becoming a national hero. He broadcasts an emergency message to the FBI, alerting them that two “germ warfare terrorists” have been traced to a shack below Mt. Palomar, and that ex-CIA agent, Parker Hampsted, is about to engage them.
Fighting for his life, Karl lashes out at his captors and manages to crush a contaminated blood vial with his heel before the agents subdue him. One of the agents clutches his throat and drops to the floor. The other agent collapses beside him, his eyes bulging. Karl glares at Hampsted and forces a sarcastic smile. “Pretty hot in here. Must be seventy-eight.”
Hampsted grips his throat and crumbles against the wall. With seconds left, Karl snatches the purple flask from Adams’ medical bag and injects the antidote into Thala’s arm, and his own. His last words are for his son as he drags his friend from the shack and drops unconscious in the dirt.
“I tried, Jerry ... God knows I tried.”
At Salzburg’s airport, Menchen bids farewell to Schoenfeld and Nakashima after assuring them the winter snows will soon quell the crisis. A few dead perhaps, but that is the risk of scientific advancement. Besides, how could they have known it would come to this? What choice did they have? Better to sacrifice a few humans to save many more from starvation.
Above him, an airport TV screen displays a global map spattered with tiny lights, each of them an outbreak site.
As Menchen watches his colleagues walk to their private jets, the TV screen flashes “Breaking News” and Adams’ lethal diagram appears. Then the photographs of Menchen and his two cohorts, and the eighteen-year-old agreement between Adams and Starburst. In the background, Karl’s voice reveals the bitter truth —
“In 1996, a German chemical firm named Starburst began spraying a rodenticide called Terra Verde. By the time they were finished, large sections of Africa, Asia, and South America had been blanketed with their product. According to the World Health Organization, their sprayings killed a billion rats and saved thousands of third-world villagers and migrants from starvation. The Starburst symbol was everywhere, and everyone should have lived happily ever after…”
Menchen’s face turns pale as he listens to Karl’s chilling words —
“We’ve scanned every document the rodenticide’s creator stashed in his San Clemente home. Our sub-program includes the rodenticide’s formula, and a possible antidote that might stop the killer. If you want a sample of the antidote, you can trigger a second sub-program from the icon at the end of this message. The sub-program contains a map leading to two tubes of the antidote. That is … if this message has gotten to the right people.”
“That’s the problem, you see. We don’t know how far the corruption has penetrated our government. We don’t even know if we have a government. From what I’ve seen, there isn’t anything left except a bunch of puppets dangling on a string. The puppeteers are men with names like Schoenfeld, Menchen, and Nakashima. Powerful, obsessed men more dangerous than any terrorist.”
“So, here’s the punch line, whoever you are. The invisible killer sweeping our planet isn’t a virus, bacteria, or terrorist germ. It’s a product of man’s greed, a bio-nuclear nightmare that made Starburst’s owners rich while implanting a time bomb that has finally gone off. You can’t see it because of the sub-atomic cloaking agent developed by its creator, a chameleon-like catalyst that conceals the rodenticide within the blood cells of its dead hosts. Brilliant, but deadly.”
The TV broadcast concludes with a warning that it is not too late. Adams’ antidote may work if the broadcast has reached the right people.
In Washington, the President rises from a Pentagon conference table and stares at the TV monitor where the broadcast has ended with a surreal image of a panting iguana. Shaken by Karl’s words, the enraged President warns his security directors that Karl and Thala must be taken alive, and that the men known as Menchen, Schoenfeld, and Nakashima be must arrested immediately. The room breaks into chaos as the President stares at Raquel Carson while muttering a prayer.
In San Diego, Jeremy smiles at the iguana on his PC screen while grasping the CD, a little birthday gift from his dad and a computer guru named Thala, an intrusive web broadcast to be shared with the human race.
Below Mt. Palomar, Karl regains consciousness and helps Thala to his feet. He looks down at the syringe lying in the dirt and takes a welcome breath of fresh air.
“It worked?”
“Guess so, unless we’re in heaven.”
“Unlikely, Mr. Frankton.”
“Come on, Doc. Let’s see what’s over that ridge.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yeah, I feel lucky today.”
The two men stagger up the ridge toward the brightening eastern sky. In the distance, we hear the roar of approaching choppers. A coyote’s howl echoes off the rocks as the sun bursts over Mt. Palomar. A new day has begun…
CHAPTER 1
Beneath DC
“They’re here, Mr. President.”
Dunbar closed the red folder and stared at Dean Stanley who was standing at the metal door.
“Are you okay, sir?”
Dunbar pushed back from the desk and sank in the leather chair.
“Mr. President?”
Dunbar frowned. “I’m stuffed in a bomb shelter with an American Eagle stamped on the floor. The walls are covered with portraits of dead presidents and my chief-of-staff looks like he’s having a panic attack. Does that answer your question?”
“Sorry, sir.”
Dunbar glared at Stanley. “What about those poor souls up there? What about them, Dean? What if they knew their president was cowering in a hole like a rat?”
Stanley glanced at the metal ceiling. “I think they’d understand.”
“I doubt it.”
“Then we won’t tell them.”
“What?”
Stanley forced a smile. “Might hurt you in the polls, sir. You know—the next election. Looks like we might have one.”
Dunbar’s glare softened. “Where are they?”
“In the war room.”
Dunbar stood up and snatched the red folder off the desk. He took a deep breath and nodded at the opened door. “Let’s meet our terrorists.”
The President and his chief-of-staff exited the underground office and headed down the blast-proof tunnel toward the war room, accompanied by four secret service agents. When they reached the war room’s steel door, Dunbar hesitated and leaned toward Stanley. “Raquel’s inside?”
“Yes, sir. She wanted to handle the interrogation personally.”
“Anything from the search team?”
Stanley shook his head. “Nothing yet, but we should know soon. They just landed at Scripp’s Point.”
Dunbar gestured for the lead agent to open the metal door. A rush of cool air brushed against his face as he stepped into the cavernous room. The circular walls flickered with colored images from monitors tracking the global devastation. A six-foot Mercator projection screen displayed two hundred points of light, each marking an outbreak site. The screen’s fatality counter read “51,493.”
A beam of white light shined down on Raquel Carson and the two men seated at the black conference table in the room’s center. One of the men appeared to be sketching something on a notepad while conversing with her. Two well-armed marines stood to either side.
Carson rose from her chair and gestured for the two men to stand. “Gentlemen, the President of the United States.”
Karl watched Mandu push up from the table. He stood up and squinted at Dunbar through bloodshot eyes. “You’re him?”
Dunbar nodded. “Wish I wasn’t.”
“And Manis?”
“Gone, with two thousand others.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“That makes two of us, Mr. Frankton.” Dunbar eyed the tall, dark-skinned man standing beside Karl. “You’re Doctor Thala?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well—let’s get on with it.”
Dunbar stepped around the table and stood beside his newly appointed CDC director. He waited for Karl and Mandu to sit down before dropping into the empty chair facing them.
The interrogation was in its twenty-third minute when the transmission came through from La Jolla. Twin tubes of Ringley Adams’ antidote had been dug up beneath the cliff at Scripp’s Point. The search team was hovering over La Jolla awaiting orders.
Carson handed the e-mail printout to Karl. “It’ll take us some time to analyze the contents of those tubes. That’s something we don’t have.” She locked her green eyes on him. “Any suggestions?”
Karl scanned the printout and placed it on the table. “Check our blood.”
“What?”
“I injected Adams’ antidote into our blood. Guess it worked.”
Carson leaned forward. “You used it on yourselves?”
Karl shrugged. “Seemed like the right thing to do.”
“My God.” Carson looked at the President. “Sir, is there a medical facility down here?”
Dean Stanley stepped toward the table. “Yes—and a lab.”
Carson stood up. “Let’s have a look at that blood.”
The medical lab was ninety feet down the corridor. Doctors Caliph and Melfry were among the best in the nation, and their equipment was top quality, except for one missing item.
It only took a minute to draw blood from Karl and Mandu, but the real test didn’t come for three hours. Hard to find an electron microscope five hundred feet below the nation’s capital. They finally dug one up at Bethesda and had it trucked in by a squad of bio-suited marines.
Carson supervised the scope’s installation in the lab while a very nervous President and his chief-of-staff waited in the war room. At twenty hundred hours, Carson stormed into the war room with a CD in her hand. She handed it to a technician and watched him take it into the control room.
Dunbar stared at her with desperate eyes. “Anything?”
“Yes, sir.” Carson stepped to the Mercator projection screen and nodded at the control room window. She backed away from the screen and watched it morph from a global map to red blood cells floating on a sea of white. Then, a sudden burst of light.
Dunbar squinted at the screen. “What is it?”
“That’s the cyanide creeping into fresh blood. Adams’ cloaking agent is trying to conceal it, but we’ve exposed it for an instant.”
Dunbar leaned closer. “That’s Frankton’s blood?”
“No, sir. It’s a drop of my blood being invaded by a drop of tainted blood.” Carson stared at the withering blood cells.
“My lord.”
“Yes, sir.”
Carson watched the picture rewind to a frozen image of the flash. She walked to the screen and touched the blurred structure inside the flash. “We magnified the flash to the scope’s threshold. You can barely see the warfarin bonded with the hydrogen cyanide.”
She pointed at the interlocked molecules. “That fuzzy brilliance in the center is Adams’ sub-atomic stew, a mutated concoction of hadrons and bosons. The building blocks of matter. Looks like it’s radioactive, from its blurred image.”
“Radioactive?” Dunbar stood up, his eyes fixed on the glowing mass.
“Yes, sir, but it’s not the radiation that’s doing the killing. The rads are barely traceable.” Carson looked at the President. “If Mr. Frankton and his friend are telling the truth, this image is off the charts. We’re talking about a warped act of desperation that didn’t work. Instead of decaying, Adams’ concoction enhanced the cyanide to super lethal proportions. That blurred mass of radiation shouldn’t exist after seventeen years, but it does, and fifty thousand are dead because of it.”
Dunbar walked around the table to the screen. “You said the radiation isn’t doing the killing?”
“It isn’t, Mr. President. The radiation is coming from the cyanide. Think of it as a reflection of the cyanide’s potency. We need more analysis, but Frankton’s evidence indicates stronger radiation in the older samples.”
“It’s growing stronger?”
“Yes, sir.”
“God.”
“Yes, sir. Something like that.”
The screen flashed to another image. “Freeze that.” Carson edged toward the frozen image and touched one of the blood cells with her finger. “Frankton’s blood, Mr. President. You’ll note that it’s red. That’s because his cells are alive, despite the onslaught of Adams’ killer.”
Dunbar glared at her. “But there’s no flash. No blurred mass. How do you know he’s not lying about the injections?”
“Last image please.”
The screen split into two side-by-side images, a blurred flash on the left and what appeared to be normal blood cells on the right.
Carson pointed to the left image. “This is the same warfarin-cyanide compound as the first slide.” She swept her hand to the blood cell image on the right. “Note the change.”
Dunbar shook his head. “I don’t get it, Ms. Carson.”
Carson backed away from the screen. “We’re looking at a before and after view of the same drop. The view on the right shows complete neutralization of the cyanide. To put it simply, it’s been eliminated.”
“But, there are no blood cells in the left view?”
Carson folded her arms. “The left image is a drop of contaminated water from the Potomac River. The right image is the same drop after applying a trace of Mr. Frankton’s blood.”
Dunbar stepped forward and touched the right image. “The antidote in his blood cleared the water?”
“It appears so, sir.”
Dunbar looked at Dean Stanley who was gawking at the screen with the agents and marines. “Dean, you tell that search team to get those tubes to the nearest F-22. I want them in our lab under maximum security.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dunbar turned to the woman standing beside him. “Well?”
“We need to mass produce Adams’ antidote.”
“How?”
Carson shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Dunbar looked into her tired green eyes while recalling Dean Stanley’s admonition on Air Force One —
Put your best people on the front line.
Dunbar patted her arm. “Whatever you need, Director Carson.”
* * *
Ralph Moran picked up the phone on its third ring after nearly tripping over a stool in the kitchen. He fumbled with the receiver and jammed it against his ear. “Anne?”
Moran listened to the silence. “Who is this?”
“Karl.”
“Who?”
“Karl Frankton.”
Moran looked down at the receiver in disbelief. “What kind of sick joke is this?”
“It’s no joke.”
“Frankton? What the hell—”
“I want to talk to my son.”
Moran glared at the receiver while recalling the FBI agent’s words. The call was being traced as they spoke. He pressed the mouthpiece to his lips. “Where are you?”
“On the other end of this line. Now please get my son.”
Moran felt a sudden chill. He hadn’t talked to his wife since she left for the hospital three hours ago. He gripped the receiver and fought the panic sweeping through him. “Is Anne there?”
“What?”
“Is Anne with you?”
“Why would she be here?”
Moran couldn’t stand it. He clutched the phone and shouted into the mouthpiece. “If you hurt her, I’ll cut your heart out!”
“Calm down, Ralph. I don’t know where Anne is. I just want to talk to Jeremy. Seems like a reasonable request. Now please put him on or I’ll come through that door and wring your arrogant neck.”
Moran looked down at his clenched fist. Get hold of yourself, dammit! They need to finish that trace.
“Well?”
“I’ll get him.”
Jeremy managed to close the internet connection before his enraged stepfather burst into the room. The young man spun around, his eyes burning with anger. “What do you think you’re—”
Jeremy never finished the sentence. Moran seized his arm and dragged him into the hall. When Jeremy tried to yank his arm free, Moran slapped him across the head with enough force to make him see stars. The next thing he knew, they were sitting on the living room couch with the wireless phone lying between them.
“Your dad wants to say hello.”
Jeremy looked down at the phone in shock. “My—”
Moran glared at him. “You remember him. The bastard who’s trying to wipe us out. The scum who’s making your mother risk her life at that damn hospital.” Moran picked up the phone and shoved it in Jeremy’s hand. “Go ahead, big shot. Say hello to dear old dad.” He watched the shaken young man lift the receiver to his mouth.
Moran’s head snapped up. Someone was ringing the doorbell. He jumped off the couch and ran into the foyer. When he opened the door, Agent Minchak was staring at him with desperate eyes.
“He’s still on?”
Moran nodded. “He wanted to talk to his son.” Moran stepped back from the door and gestured toward the living room.
Minchak brushed past Moran, followed by Agent Palmer. He spotted Jeremy sitting on the couch with the phone in his hand.
Moran eased beside Minchak. “How much longer?”
“We only need a few seconds. It’s coming out of DC.”
“Washington?”
Minchak nodded. “Makes sense. That’s where the nightmare happened. They must have snuck in there and unleashed it last night.” Minchak edged toward Jeremy, his face twisted in a scowl. Two hours earlier, he’d received word that his wife and daughter were among the missing in the Los Angeles outbreak.
Jeremy pressed the receiver against his ear. “Dad?”
“Hi, son.”
Jeremy’s eyes filled with tears. “You okay?”
“Tolerable. How about you?”
“We made it, Dad. We made it.”
“Hang in there, Jerry. We’re almost home.”
Jeremy looked up and saw Minchak rushing toward him. He managed to blurt out, “FBI!” before Minchak ripped the phone out of his hand.
“Wait, sir!”
Minchak glared at the technician standing at the door.
“It’s coming from the White House.”
Minchak looked down at the phone in disbelief. He stepped back from the couch and placed the phone against his ear.
“Jerry, what’s wrong?”
“Frankton?” Minchak listened to the silence.
“You’re—FBI?”
Minchak pressed the phone against his ear. He could hear voices on the other end, and a rustling sound like the receiver being handed to someone else.
“Agent Minchak?”
Minchak grimaced. “Who is this?”
“Corey Whitman.”
“Who?”
“Your boss, Agent Minchak.”
Minchak looked at the technician in disbelief. “The Director?”
The technician nodded.
“Agent Minchak?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry about your family, Agent Minchak. I’ll have you relieved so you can be with them.”
Minchak’s face reddened. “They’re—okay?”
“I’m sorry, Agent Minchak. They didn’t make it.”
Minchak’s face went blank. He staggered to the couch and sat down with the phone dangling from his hand. Agent Palmer eased beside him and gently took the phone. He placed it against his ear and identified himself.
Palmer rested his hand on his comrade’s shoulder while listening to the voice on the phone. He nodded and looked down at Jeremy. “Yes, sir. I understand.”
Moran glared at the two agents. “What the hell’s going on?”
Palmer ignored him and handed the phone to Jeremy. “Your dad wants to talk to you. Stay well, young man.” He helped Minchak to his feet and led his shaken comrade out of the house.
* * *
“You had a good talk?”
Karl nodded and sipped his coffee.
Carson leaned back in the chair. “I read your dossier. You’ve been separated from your son for some time.”
Karl looked down. “He was nine when the mess happened at FDA. I didn’t see him for two years.” He paused and stared at the coffee. “Last year, his mom came to Atlanta for a convention and let me spend a day with him. Then she yanked him back to Manhattan and left me with two Hawks’ tickets, a broken heart, and a bottle of scotch.”
Carson frowned. “You’re still drinking?”
“That’s my business.”
Carson leaned forward. “I need to know.”
Karl hesitated. “I haven’t had a drink since Somalia, but I could use one now.”
“Badly?”
“Badly.”
Carson leaned closer, her voice barely above a whisper. “What if I offered you a chance to work with us? Would you give up the liquor?”
Karl glared at her. “I’m a washed up med student with too many bad memories. I just want to see my son and go back to Pennsylvania.”
“York?”
“That’s right. Packing groceries looks pretty good right now.”
Carson smiled. “Forgive me, but you don’t seem the grocery-packing type.”
Karl chugged his coffee.
“What about your friend?”
“Mandu?”
“Yes—what about him?”
Karl shrugged. “Good man. Passionate, dedicated, brilliant. He’ll help you through this mess. When it’s over, give him a field assignment in the Sudan or Congo, and he’ll be a happy camper.”
Carson’s smile faded. “I talked to Dr. Thala while you were asleep. He told me you were the best he’d seen. That without you, we’d all be dead in a few months. That you were the perfect warrior to fight this battle.”
Karl smiled. “He called me a warrior?”
“Yes.”
“Hell, he’s a Zulu. What do you expect?” Karl pushed up from the table. “Nice try, Director Carson. When can I see my son?”
Carson gestured for the two marines to stand back. She rose out of her chair, her green eyes flickering. “It’s not that simple, Mr. Frankton.” She pointed to the screen with a trembling finger. “Look at that death count. We’re almost out of time. We need you. And your friend. And that antidote.”
Karl looked at her with cold, blue eyes. “I tried to do my part, and what did it get me? I lost my family, my career, my self-respect. Hell, I almost lost my soul.”
She glared at him. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself. We all have baggage. We’ve all suffered in our own way. But we go on.” She pointed that trembling finger at him. “You listen to me, young man. It’ll take two years to recapture that medical degree. We’ll pay for the effort, but the rest will be up to you.”
Karl stared at her. “Recapture?”
“You heard me.”
“Hell, I washed out. The AMA banned me for life.”
“So, we’ll un-ban you.” She waved her hand impatiently. “Forget the details, Mr. Frankton. In case you don’t get it, I’m offering you another chance. Seems appropriate for a man who might save the human race.”
Karl dropped in the chair, his eyes focused on her.
“Well?”
“You remind me of someone I met along the way. Scared me to death, the way she howled at me. Worst pilot I ever saw.”
Her face softened. “Whatever it takes.”
Karl sank in the chair. “I didn’t expect this.”
“Neither did I.”
“I’ll be damned.”
She extended her hand. “Do I have to beg?”
CHAPTER 2
Ωmega
Darryl Kensley gripped the twin silver handles and pushed through the double doors. It was Monday morning, August 5th, and sunlight beamed into the Oval Office.
Kensley turned to the President who was standing behind him. “Beautiful morning, sir.”
Dunbar eased beside Kensley and studied the empty room. “I must have walked through these doors a thousand times. Manis was always sitting at that desk with a pen in hand. Seemed so contrived, until now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dunbar looked down at the carpet’s gold and blue presidential seal. “Beats the one in the shelter.”
The agent smiled and watched the President walk to the bay window behind the desk.
Dunbar peered through the window. “The flowers are dead.”
“Sir?”
“In the rose garden. No sign of life. Not even a bird.”
Dunbar squinted at the wrought iron fence beyond the sprawling White House lawn. No cars or buses. No protestors with their familiar white placards. No tourists peeking through the bars. So strange for an August morning.
To his left, Dunbar could see Marine One sitting on the White House lawn. Two bio-suited marines stood guard outside the chopper with M-16’s slung over their shoulders. Their white helmets lay on the ground, readily accessible should they be needed.
Dunbar looked down at the folded bio-suit beside his desk. A blue oxygen bottle lay atop the suit, its hose attached to a plastic helmet. If something went wrong, Kensley would be on him in a heartbeat, slipping the helmet over his head while jamming his six-foot frame into the plastic suit.
Kensley stepped toward the President, his eyes filled with concern. “Sir, we urge you to reconsider. It’s not safe. Better to stay below.”
Dunbar smiled at his secret service agent. “Thank you, Darryl. Just keep an eye on that temperature. This cold front won’t last forever.”
“Please, Mr. President.”
“I’d like to be alone with my chief-of-staff and director.”
Kensley nodded reluctantly and turned for the door. As he walked away, Dunbar noticed a HEPA detection device in Kensley’s left hand, its pulsing green light signaling all clear.
Dunbar eased behind the desk and sank into the presidential chair—the same chair his predecessor had used only two days ago. He leaned forward and rested his hands on the desk.
“Well—guess we’re open for business.” Dunbar smiled at Dean Stanley and Raquel Carson who had stepped into the room. Behind them, Agent Kensley backed through the opened doors and pulled them closed.
Carson stepped forward and placed a blue folder on the desk. “The test looks encouraging, Mr. President. It appears that one drop of the antidote will clear eighteen gallons of contaminated water. Adams didn’t have the benefit of our equipment and chemical concentrations, so we should improve that ratio considerably.”
Dunbar nodded.
“We’ve selected five companies to present their capabilities at this evening’s meeting. They’re detailed in the folder.” Carson watched the President pick up the folder and open it. “We had some trouble reaching their corporate heads because of the crisis, but they should be here. Barring complications, we should make a selection within twenty-four hours.”
Dunbar scanned the five names. “Then what?”
Carson hesitated. “Until we know more, I’m holding to my original projection, minus the three months Mr. Frankton bought us.”
Dunbar placed the folder on the desk. “Nine months minus three?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How many will die?”
“We’ll do our best, sir.”
Dunbar locked his gray eyes on her. “How many, Director Carson?”
Carson lowered her head. “Four to eight million.”
The room was dead silent except for the clock ticking on the mantle.
Carson looked up. “I’ve asked Mr. Frankton and Dr. Thala to observe the meeting.”
Dunbar nodded. “Interesting duo.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you, Director Carson.” Dunbar leaned back in the chair and watched her leave the room.
“Let’s talk.”
Dunbar frowned at Dean Stanley who had dropped into one of the powder blue couches at the fireplace. “Comfortable?”
“Not lately.” Stanley gestured toward the opposing couch. “Better over here.”
The President grunted and pushed out of his chair.
They sat at the fireplace for an hour, searching for the magic bullet that might reduce the six months and save a few million lives, but the answer was always the same.
“Day by day, sir. We’ll clear the Potomac and move on from there. It took seventeen years to create this mess. Six months looks pretty good right now.”
Dunbar rested his head on the couch and closed his tired eyes. “What if it doesn’t work?”
“It’ll work, sir. It has to.”
“Think she’s up to it?”
“She’s the best we have. This kind of mess takes more than intellect. She’s got the passion.”
“Like that boozing renegade and his Zulu friend?”
“Yes, sir. They’re our horses.”
Dunbar’s eyes snapped open. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s the last race.”
* * *
Vilstrak Kemeter closed the laptop PC and leaned toward the Plexiglas window. The storm clouds had cleared and the ocean shimmered with reflected sunlight. He glanced at his watch. Eighteen thirty hours. They’d be landing in twenty minutes.
Kemeter snatched his cell phone off the snack table and punched a dialing code. He placed the plastic phone against his ear and waited for the static to clear.
“Menchen residence.”
“Herr Menchen, please.”
“Who is calling?”
“An old friend from Ωmega.”
“Sir?”
“He’ll know who it is.”
Kemeter felt the plane bank to the right as it entered Dulles’ traffic pattern. He rested his head against the seat and listened to the silence in the earpiece. It was past midnight in Salzburg.
“Villy?”
Kemeter smiled. “How goes it, old friend?
“A bit bumpy just now.”
“Here too. I’m in a jet approaching Dulles International. The new American president has requested my attendance at an emergency meeting in their pentagon.”
“You saw the internet broadcast?”
“Yes.”
“Devastating for us.”
Kemeter sighed. “A bit difficult, yes.”
“You’re one of five companies attending the meeting. The new CDC director wants Adams’ antidote cloned and distributed. They’re desperate, Villy.”
“I’m aware.”
“Can you do it?”
Kemeter hesitated. “I have a team working on the cloning strategy. It shouldn’t be difficult, given your contribution.”
Menchen’s voice broke. “We didn’t know it would come to this. Adams lied to us, Villy. He betrayed us!”
“Calm down, old friend. We’ll put an end to this mess. Can you give me anything on the other companies?”
Menchen uttered a deep sigh. “Furmeister, Crayton, Zardac, and Hasagawa. All capable, except you already have the formula. In the end, it will come down to precious time. You should beat their estimates by two months.”
Kemeter nodded. “Thank you, old friend. You and your associates will be well compensated after we close the deal.” He paused and listened to Menchen’s strained breathing. “How are Nicole and Gretta?”
“They are well.”
Kemeter hesitated. “And you?”
“Just end this, Villy. I promised my wife and daughter a vacation in the Alps. Life is too short to delay a promise.”
Kemeter glanced at the “fasten seatbelt” sign. “We won’t disappoint them, Gunthar. They’ll have a wonderful vacation with their man. The mountains are lovely in the spring.”
“Be well, Villy.”
“You too, old friend.” Kemeter pressed the off button and stared at the approaching coastline.
* * *
It was a blessedly cool evening in the nation’s capital, but the weather forecast called for a steady warming trend. With the Potomac threatening to boil over a second time, Washington, DC, would remain deserted for many days.
Across the nation, similar horror stories were being written from Manhattan to San Francisco, with panicked citizens fleeing to the foothills and mountains in a futile attempt to escape the invisible killer.
Across the globe, nations fought to maintain order while their confused populations ran from the deadly cyanide lashing out at them like an angel of death. The tragic irony was they were also fleeing the one precious resource humanity cannot live without.
With the planet’s water contaminated, the global supply of bottled water was shrinking at an alarming rate. Reports were rampant of massive deaths from dehydration within the third world. If something wasn’t done to turn the tide, the human race and all living creatures would cease to exist within a year, except perhaps a few roaches, ants, and stray rat or two.
In this critical moment of human history, fourteen men and women assembled below the Pentagon on the night of August 5th, 2013, their eyes fixed on Raquel Carson standing at the lectern beneath the Mercator screen.
Carson eyed the faces at the narrow table in front of her. The five corporate presidents were seated at the table’s center, flanked by six NSA officers to their right, and three congressional representatives to their left.
Carson looked down at the five corporate presidents. “Your efforts in getting here are greatly appreciated.” She waited for their confirming nods. “There’s no need to review the gravity of the situation, so I’ll get to the point.” She leaned forward and rested her arms on the lectern. “We’ve asked each of you to present a strategy and timetable to clone and distribute the antidote that will neutralize the cyanide.”
Baron Hager of Zardac rose to his feet. “Excuse me, Director Carson. How can you expect us to give estimates when we haven’t seen the antidote? You’re asking the impossible. We must first be given a sample to analyze. Then we can prepare the necessary timetable.”
Klaus Pendster of Furmeister nodded in agreement. “What about cost? How can we commit to preparing countless batches of an unknown compound without knowing the cost? Our employees fear for their lives. It will take a large sum to induce them out of their homes and shelters. The costs of global production and distribution will be astronomical.”
Carson jotted something down before looking at Zeke Bradley of Crayton Pharmaceuticals. “Your thoughts, Mr. Bradley?”
Bradley gave her a puzzled look. “What kind of game is this, Director Carson? You’re putting the cart before the horse. Without a sample, we’re guessing at the time and cost.”
Carson rested her arms on the lectern. “That’s all you have to say?”
Bradley nodded angrily.
“Anyone else?”
Senator Harris rose from her chair. “Aren’t we being a bit rash? These men have risked their lives to come here. They’re prepared to give their best resources to stop this thing. We should give them what they need.”
Carson smiled at the senator while recalling Chief-of-Staff Stanley’s warning that Harris was in the back pocket of Crayton Pharmaceuticals. “Thank you for those words of wisdom, Senator.” She looked at the five men seated in front of her. “I hope I haven’t offended anyone. I’m just trying to take a little test drive, so to speak.” Carson didn’t have to look at Senator Harris to feel her anger.
Mr. Hasagawa rose to his feet, his body bowed from his eighty-two years. He hesitated for a moment while smiling at his colleagues.
“Yes, Mr. Hasagawa?”
The Japanese industrialist’s smile faded. “You ask the impossible, but this is no time for timidity. If you provide my company with samples tonight, I will commit to full distribution in three months. That is my best offer.”
Carson smiled. “Thank you, sir.” She jotted down the estimate beside Hasagawa’s name.
“Wait!” Kemeter stood up, his blue eyes blazing with anger. “With all due respect, Mr. Hasagawa, you cannot make unsubstantiated promises. There is too much at stake. A plan must be put forth. Estimates must be presented. There is no way you can pull this off on blind faith.”
Hasagawa restrained himself. “Hasagawa Pharmaceuticals has put its good name on the line. What about you, Kemeter-san? Will you join us?” He dropped into his chair and folded his arms defiantly.
Kemeter fixed his glare on Carson. “I don’t make blind promises, but I can beat Mr. Hasagawa’s estimate.”
Carson nodded. “Then please present your bid, Mr. Kemeter. It’s between you and Mr. Hasagawa. The other three candidates have eliminated themselves.”
“What!” Zeke Bradley jumped out of his chair, followed by Hager and Pendster. Senator Harris and her two colleagues stared at Carson in shock.
Carson rested her arms on the lectern. “Sorry, gentlemen. I need total commitment and Hasagawa Pharmaceuticals appears to be the only company willing to give it.”
“How dare you!” Bradley jammed his papers into his attaché case and stormed toward the door.
Carson nodded. “The guard will escort you to the helicopter, Mr. Bradley. I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”
Hager picked up his briefcase and turned for the door. “It seems we came here for nothing. Good night, Director Carson.”
Pendster was too angry to speak. He shook his head and followed his two colleagues through the door, muttering to himself.
Carson looked at Kemeter. “You said, you could do better?”
Kemeter nodded angrily. He reached into his attaché case and pulled out a CD. “Can you display this?”
It only took a few seconds to pass the CD to the control room. The remaining eleven attendees watched the screen come alive with Ωmega’s logo—
The first image was a time chart reflecting the major production and distribution efforts plotted against their target dates.
Carson jotted something down and pointed at the screen. “Looks like three months.”
Kemeter nodded.
“The same as Mr. Hasagawa’s estimate?”
“Correct, but that is where the similarity ends.” Kemeter gestured for the next screen.
In the next fifteen minutes, Kemeter presented a powerful collection of facts and figures proving why his company dwarfed Hasagawa Pharmaceuticals in its ability to mass-produce and distribute the antidote throughout the world. His strongest point was made when he presented a chart showing how distribution could begin immediately after the first batches cleared quality inspection, with overlapped production and shipping through the next several months until the job was done.
The
CD concluded with an animation of the global distribution effort and
final screen containing one
date—
November 5, 2013
Kemeter sat down and nodded at the screen. If you provide us with the antidote tonight, we will begin global distribution on that date, three months from now.” He leaned toward Hasagawa who appeared shaken by the presentation. “Can you match this effort, Mr. Hasagawa?”
Carson stepped toward the screen. “Impressive, Mr. Kemeter. I notice no mention of cost.”
Kemeter shrugged. “Seems irrelevant, given the crisis. We’ll bill you after the distribution begins.”
Carson turned toward him. “No cost estimate?”
“None.”
Carson looked at Hasagawa. “Do you have anything to add, sir?”
Hasagawa shook his head.
Carson walked back to the lectern and gazed at her notes. She was about to speak when her cell phone went off with an annoying buzz. She snatched it out of her pocket and stepped away while whispering something into the mouthpiece. She stuffed the phone in her pocket and returned to the lectern.
Carson smiled at Kemeter and Hasagawa. “You gentlemen must be tired after this madness. I’d like to discuss your offers with my associates. Can we resume our meeting at eight o’clock tomorrow morning?”
Kemeter leaned forward, his eyes flickering with anger. “I don’t understand the delay? I thought every minute was crucial? Why lose another night?”
Carson nodded. “I need to be sure.”
Kemeter sighed impatiently before nodding approval.
“Mr. Hasagawa?”
“If you feel it necessary, Director Carson, but I must admit for the first time this evening I am forced to agree with Kemeter-san.”
Carson’s smile faded. “Thank you, gentlemen. We’ve arranged sleeping quarters for both of you. The guard will show you the way.”
Kemeter rose to his feet. “Tomorrow then.” He walked to the exit door, followed by Hasagawa.
Carson snatched her folder off the lectern and glared at the man peering down at her from the control room window. She was almost to the exit door when Senator Harris cut her off.
“What do you think you’re doing? There’s too much at stake to eliminate three companies because of an impossible request. Let them see the formula, dammit.”
Carson brushed past Harris while the senator glared at her. The CDC director couldn’t care less. Her mind was on the blond-haired man in the control room who had made the unexpected phone call that stopped her from making the most important decision in history.
When she cleared the conference room, Carson ducked into a rest room and flipped open her cell phone. She pressed a paging code and leaned against the wall, her face showing the strain of too little sleep.
“Yeah?”
She jammed the phone against her mouth. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I thought we were supposed to talk.”
Carson’s face reddened. “You saw Kemeter’s presentation. What’s there to talk about?”
“We need to talk.”
“Meet me in the conference room.”
It only took a minute for Karl to drive Carson’s blood pressure into the red zone. She leaned across the table, her eyes seething with anger. “You stopped me because of a hunch?”
“I have a feeling about Kemeter. I can’t put my hands on it, but something’s wrong.”
Carson pushed back from the table. “I’m meeting with the President in ten minutes. You better give me more than divine inspiration.”
Karl shook his head. “We’re working on it. Mandu’s in the lab pounding away at the computer. I need to get back there to help him.” He paused. “We work well together.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Karl shrugged. “Sorry—it’s a hunch.”
Carson shook her head. “Like those missing rats in the painting?”
“Yeah—something like that.”
She took a calming breath and sank in the chair. “You have a way of irritating people.”
“I’ll work on it.”
She drummed her fingers on the table. “I need an answer by seven a.m. Good night, Mr. Frankton.” She stood up and marched out of the room.
CHAPTER 3
Decision
The marine led Kemeter and Hasagawa into the conference room at 0759. After a strained handshake and bow, the two industrialists resumed their seats at the polished black table, their eyes trained on the empty lectern.
Kemeter nodded at the screen’s fatality counter. “Eighty-four thousand. That’s fourteen thousand since we adjourned.”
Hasagawa frowned. “We battle for a contract while the human race dies.” He looked at Kemeter with sullen eyes. “Are we mad, Kemeter-san?”
Kemeter shrugged. “We do what we must.”
Hasagawa looked down. “Perhaps we should work together.”
Kemeter stared at him. “You mean, combine our resources?”
Hasagawa nodded. “Two armies are better than one.”
Kemeter shook his head. “Ωmega has all it needs. Your people will slow us down.”
The old man’s eyes filled with anger. “I extend my hand in friendship and you slap it away?”
Kemeter forced a nervous smile. “Nothing personal, Mr. Hasagawa.”
Hasagawa hesitated. “May I ask you a question, Kemeter-san?”
Kemeter shrugged. “You can ask.”
“When did you sell your soul?”
Kemeter’s face reddened. “How dare you! I have a good mind to—”
“Gentlemen.”
Kemeter’s head snapped to the right. Raquel Carson was staring down at him from the lectern.
Carson placed her attaché case on the floor and rested her arms on the lectern. “Can we proceed?”
Kemeter dropped back in his chair. “We should have wrapped this up last night. Look at the death count.”
Carson nodded. “There will be no further delays.”
“Then get to it.”
She leaned toward him. “I need to ask you a question, Herr Kemeter.”
“Question?”
“Have you heard of M-13?”
Kemeter’s eyes widened. “What?”
“M-13. I believe it was an AID’s drug that was recalled during an FDA test three years ago.”
Kemeter glared at her. “Where did you get that?”
Carson glanced at the man peering down at her from the control room window. “You’ve heard of it?”
Kemeter spun around and squinted at the control room window. He could barely make out the man’s blond hair, but it was enough to drive his blood pressure through the roof.
“Herr Kemeter?”
Kemeter turned toward Carson, his eyes burning with anger. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t engage in meaningless speculation.”
Carson looked down at her notes. “I believe you were previously the CEO of Alpha Pharmaceuticals?”
“So?”
“Alpha developed M-13.” She looked him in the eyes. “You don’t remember your own product?”
Kemeter clenched his fists. “We are not here to discuss the past, Director Carson.”
Carson frowned. “Past is prologue, Herr Kemeter.” She turned to Hasagawa. “Are you ready to proceed, Mr. Hasagawa?”
Hasagawa stared at her in shock.
Carson leaned closer. “Mr. Hasagawa?”
Hasagawa rose to his feet. “With all my heart, Director Carson.”
Carson stepped around the lectern and handed Hasagawa the attaché case. “The formula and sample. Everything we have.”
Hasagawa bowed his head. “I am honored.”
“Thank you, sir.” Carson extended her hand. “I pledge the full support of my government. Whatever you need.”
Kemeter jumped up from his chair. “Are you insane? Look at the death count. There is only one hope and it’s not an old man’s fantasy. Come to your senses, Director Carson. You’re committing suicide!”
Carson glared at Kemeter. “The marine will show you to the helicopter, sir. I’m sorry it didn’t work out.” She watched the incensed German snatch his briefcase off the floor and storm out of the conference room.
* * *
Mandu poured a cup of coffee and extended it to his friend.
“Got anything stronger?”
“Not for you.”
“Then forget it.” Karl leaned toward the window and stared at the deserted conference room. He could see papers strewn across the floor from Kemeter’s abrupt exit. The lights had been dimmed, setting off the colored banks of television monitors. The projection screen’s counter read “96,187.”
Mandu sipped the coffee and dropped into the chair beside him. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Go away.”
“How did you know it was him?”
Karl sighed. “The emblem on his briefcase. Same design as the emblem on the bottle of M-13, except for the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Ωmega instead of Αlpha.”
“You remembered that?”
Karl nodded. “Some things you never forget.”
Mandu sipped his coffee. “Now what?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Think Hasagawa can pull it off?”
“Don’t know, but one thing’s certain. The other guy would have sold his soul to make that date. I’m betting on the humble one.”
Mandu looked down at the coffee. “Sorry about your son.”
Karl stared at the window. “I didn’t know how much she hated me until now. I just wanted to hold him for a few minutes. Tell him I love him, and all that.”