“She has a crush on you, One,” Eddie would say. “I like her.”
“Me, too, but not in that way.” This was a lie. I was strongly drawn to her. I would never act on it.
“All guys like her in that way.”
“Then talk to them.”
Chris broke in. “Colonel Rush has to go in and you know it, Frank. We have Americans on the ground who need help.”
“Chris, you have a big heart.” Burke sighed, but he didn’t tell me to turn around. He was probably realizing that since I’d gone in without permission, I’d be blamed if things went sour. He’d get credit if they worked. If he stopped me, and U.S. scientists died, Frank would be on the hot seat. Frank would have to explain the lapse. Not me.
His slow smile told me that he did not appreciate being manipulated. I couldn’t care less. I was still trying to understand why the committee was in session.
The admiral asked me now, “Do you have more photos?”
“No, sir.”
“Dr. Nash’s face looks swollen, but you can’t see features,” said Chris thoughtfully.
“It’s not the same thing,” insisted Frank Burke.
I thought, The same thing as what?
“Well, it certainly looks swollen the same way,” said the next face in line, Dr. Colonel Wilbur Gaines, from Fort Detrick, Maryland, where the Army had its bioterror labs. Gaines, the top-left-hand face, headed disease tracking and was in his late forties, with light brown skin, thick short hair, and round, clear reading glasses on a red string around his neck. He got along well with Burke.
“I agree it is a stretch, Frank, but we need a better photo.”
Burke said, “Can we blow this shot up, make it clearer?”
“No.”
“Can we ask the sender to resend?”
“I can try.”
Left to right, box to box, as in a high school yearbook, I saw Ray Havlicek, FBI, Chris’s ex-boyfriend, who still carried a torch for her and would head up domestic investigations in the event of attack; Celia St. Johns, CIA, in a tent dress, a sixty-two-year-old onetime Cold War Mata Hari, who looked more like a bag lady these days, and, who, considering her appearance — brown tent dresses, wet wool smell, mustard stains, stringy matted gray hair — had to be really good at her job, or know secrets, to still represent her agency at this high level.
Next was Lester Ormand, FEMA, emergency food and med-aid, a natty man who looked more like a Wall Street lawyer, and Carla Vasquez, forty-nine, White House liaison with governors of all states. Carla was a third cousin to the vice president, and a former big fund-raiser from Miami.
“Perfect social life for you,” Eddie liked to say. “All work. At least someone calls out for food.”
If Chris spoke for compassion, the next speaker represented urgency. Ray Havlicek, forty-nine, was an ex — college sprinter from the University of North Carolina, still lean and fit, the son of an FBI agent who had arrested Rajneeshee cult members for carrying out a food poisoning attack in Dalles, Oregon, in 1984. Ray had led the team that stopped Madyan Al Onazy’s 2009 smallpox attack on a Saudi Airlines 747 on its way to Dulles Airport. That midair fight and arrest remained classified. Ray was a heavyweight and I respected him. I had a feeling he’d been a jealous boyfriend when he’d dated Chris. It was still in his eyes.
“I agree with Chris. Dr. Rush must go in,” he said.
To his left, inside his square, was impassive-looking Air Force Major General Wayne Homza, whose career I’d almost wrecked a year ago, by proving him wrong during an outbreak, and then resurrected it, by ending a threat with minimal loss of life. Homza had been grateful, but some people can’t sustain that emotion. Thanks becomes resentment. These days he was making a professional comeback. Homza was the only officer in the United States with experience quarantining a U.S. town. His learning curve had been steep. But his experience in Alaska had made him the Pentagon’s choice when it came to war games involving quarantines, blockades, transport shutdowns, or evacuation protocols.
Homza said suspiciously, “What interests me is how this alleged former Marine of yours knew you were in Africa, yet never contacted you before.”
“I wondered that, too. I confirmed his identity.”
Homza shook his head. “I think it’s a trap.”
Gaines said, with visible urgency, “Either way, in light of our other problem—”
Burke cut him off swiftly. “Dr. Gaines!”
Gaines fell silent, but looked troubled.
Vekey said, “There’s no way to know what happened until Dr. Rush gets there.”
Burke shook his head. “He should have gotten more photos.”
“I suggest that we wait for clouds to lift, then try for a sat shot, confirm the situation.”
“Wait? But if this thing turns out to be the same as—”
“We’ll discuss that later.”
The funny thing about teleconferences — they change the way you read faces. On-screen, Burke’s eyes flashed left, toward Chris. But in reality, the person sitting beside him could have been anyone. There was no way to read expressions, not without them in front of me for real.
Gaines said, “Can you hear me, Dr. Rush?”
“Yes, Colonel.”
“Please list the symptoms.”
The little plane lurched, every second taking us farther from the border. I went over Lionel’s list: throat closing, rashes, nausea, loss of walking function, hallucinations.
“Please detail these hallucinations.”
“He didn’t actually say he was hallucinating,” I explained. “He said he saw a gargoyle. Like on Notre Dame.”
The effect of my words on the group was electrifying. The admiral shot up. Chris leaned forward, as if to see better. Burke’s gasp was audible, and everyone either gave significant looks to each other, or their gaze sharpened on me. I could not tell who was looking at who.
The whole exchange made no sense. Why would the word gargoyle set them off?
Gaines said casually, “Joe, please describe the gargoyle.”
“Describe it?”
“Saddle nose? Wide forehead? Flesh gone?”
“What?”
Burke snapped out, “It’s a pretty plain question. Were they winged figures or not?”
Gaines said more quietly, “Colonel, did your man tell you that what he saw looked like a gargoyle or was one?”
Eddie said, “Hmmph,” and fell back in his seat. I tried to remember Nash’s exact words. But the distinction was not something I’d paid attention to. “Looked like, I think.”
“He thinks,” snorted Burke, as if I’d missed something obvious.
Gaines looked encouraged. “Ah! So it’s possible that he spoke of exaggerated features, disfigurement, and not hallucination? Possibly he saw something that made him think of a gargoyle. A useful description. Nothing more.”
“You could interpret it that way,” I replied.
Burke was shaking his head in disgust. Ray Havlicek broke in thoughtfully. “I must point out that not all the figures on Notre Dame have wings. Wings are irrelevant.”
“I disagree,” said Galli. “Wings would confirm a hallucination.”
Chris said, “How is Colonel Rush to answer properly if we don’t keep him in the loop?”