In fact, Mitch had not had a woman since he and Kaye had parted last year in Phoenix, shortly after his release from prison. They had agreed to go their strategic ways. Kaye had gone to work for Americol in Maryland, and Mitch had gone on the road, looking for holes in the Earth to hide in.
“I thought Spiro was, like, a corrupt vice president,” said Larry Kelly, the dimmest and funniest of the crew. “How’s a shell going to save our dig?”
Fallon, surprisingly, set herself to gently explain.
Mitch wandered off to check his cell phone. He had turned it off for the morning work hours, and forgotten to switch it on during the nap he had taken at the burning center of the day. There was one message. He vaguely recognized the number. With an awkward pass, he punched in the retrieval code.
The voice was instantly recognizable. It was Eileen Ripper, a fellow archaeologist and friend. Eileen specialized in Northwestern digs. They had not spoken in more than ten years. “Mitch, something dishy. Are you busy? Better not be. This is, as I said, dishy. I am stuck here with a bunch of women, can you believe it? Want to upset some more apple carts? Call me.”
Mitch looked across the darkening plateau and the black ditches to where Fallon was explaining the Spiro shells to a group of bone-weary students, about to have their dig closed and covered over by lawns and concrete slabs. He stood with the phone in his weak hand, clenching his strong hand. He could not stand the thought of having this dig closed, however trivial it was, of having another part of his life be judged useless.
He had been put away for two years for assault with a deadly weapon—a large wood chip. He had not seen Kaye for more than a year. She was working on viruses for Marge Cross, and in Mitch’s judgment, that was a kind of defeat as well.
And there was Stella, stashed away by the government in a school in Arizona.
Fallon Dupres walked up behind him. He turned just as she folded her arms, watching him carefully. “It isn’t a whelk, Mitch,” she said. “It’s a broken clamshell.”
“I could have sworn,” he said. He had seen the Mesoamerican design so plainly.
“It’s scratched up like a doodle pad,” the young woman said. “But it’s not a whelk. Sorry.” She turned away, glanced at him one more time, smiled perhaps more in regret than pity, and walked off.
Mitch stood under the blue-black sky for a few minutes, wondering how many wish-thinks he had left in him before he lost it completely. Another door closing.
He could head north. Drop off and visit Stella along the way—if they let him. You could never find out in advance.
He called Eileen’s number.
8
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Gianelli entered at the back of the chamber, carrying a stack of papers. Thomasen looked up. Augustine glanced over his shoulder. The last senator on the committee was followed by a Secret Service agent, who took a position with another agent by the door, and then by a small, intense-looking woman. Augustine recognized Laura Bloch. She was the main reason Gianelli was a senator, and she was a formidable political mind.
Augustine had also heard that Bloch was a bit of a spymaster.
“Glad you could make it, Dick,” Chase called out across the chamber. “We were worried.”
Gianelli smiled foxily. “Allergies,” he said.
Kaye Lang Rafelson entered after Bloch. Her presence surprised Augustine. He recognized a setup and suspected that the current director of EMAC would regret not arriving on time.
Kaye moved up to the witness table. A chair and microphone awaited her. She was introduced to the committee, all of whom knew her by name and reputation.
Senator Percy looked disconcerted. He, too, could smell a setup. “Dr. Rafelson is not on our list, Dick,” he said as Bloch helped Gianelli settle himself at the dais.
“She brings important news,” Gianelli said brusquely.
Kaye was sworn in. Not once did she look at Augustine, though he sat fewer than five feet away.
Senator Thomasen stifled a yawn. She seemed perfectly happy to take her cues from Gianelli. There was some procedural wrangling, more interruptions by Percy and counterarguments by Chase, and finally Percy held up his hands and let her testimony proceed. He was clearly unhappy that the director was still not present.
“You work at Americol, correct, Dr. Rafelson?” Thomasen said, reading from the witness sheet handed to her by Gianelli.
“Yes, Senator.”
“And what is your group doing?”
“We’re studying ERV knockout techniques in mice and chimpanzees, Senator,” Kaye said.
“Bravo,” Senator Percy said. “A worthy effort, to rid the world of viruses.”
“We’re working to understand the roles viruses play in our genome and in our everyday lives,” Kaye corrected. The distinction seemed lost on Percy.
“You also work with the Centers for Disease Control,” Thomasen continued. “Serving as a go-between for Marge Cross and Fern Ridpath, the director of SHEVA affairs at the CDC?”
“Occasionally, but Dr. Ridpath spends more time with our PI.”
“PI?”
“Principal Investigator.”
“And that is?”
“Dr. Robert Jackson,” Kaye said.
Thomasen looked up, as did the others, at the sound of the door at the back of the chamber opening once more. Rachel Browning marched down the aisle, wearing a black dress with a wide red belt. She glanced at Augustine, then looked over the senators on the dais with what she meant to be a puzzled smile. To Kaye, the smile appeared predatory. Two steps behind walked her counsel, a small, gray-haired woman in a beige cotton summer suit.
“You’re late, Ms. Browning,” Senator Thomasen said.
“It was my understanding Dr. Browning was to be testifying alone to the committee, in closed session,” the counsel said, her voice commanding.
“The hearing is closed,” Gianelli said with another sniff. “Senator Percy invited Dr. Augustine, and I invited Dr. Rafelson.”
Browning sat at the end of the table and smiled calmly as her counsel leaned over to set up a small laptop on the desk. The counsel then unfolded blinders, to prevent the computer display from being visible to either side, and took her seat on Browning’s left.
“Dr. Rafelson was interrupted,” Senator Gianelli reminded the chair.
Thomasen smirked. “I’m not sure which tune we’re supposed to be dancing to. Who’s the fiddler?”
“You are, as always, Madam Chair,” Gianelli said.
“I sincerely doubt that,” Thomasen said. “All right, go ahead, Dr. Rafelson.”
Kaye did not like going up against the director of Emergency Action in this way, but she clearly had no choice. She was being squeezed between lines of scrimmage in a game far rougher than football.
“Yesterday evening, a meeting was held in Baltimore to discuss the results of a proprietary Americol health survey. You were present,” Gianelli said. “Tell us what’s happening, Kaye.”
Browning’s look was a warning.
Kaye ignored her. “We have conclusive evidence there have been new first-stage SHEVA deliveries, Senator,” she said. “Expulsion or abortion of interim daughters.”
A hush fell over the chamber. All the senators looked up and around, as if a strange bird had flown into the room.
“I beg your pardon?” Chase said.
“There will be new SHEVA births. We are now in our third wave.”