Dicken reached into his pocket and withdrew his hand, then, under the table, unfolded a red serviette. He palmed the serviette over the damp napkin on the table, also red, and left it there.
At eight, after an hour and a half, his beer almost gone and the waitress starting to look predatory, he pushed off the stool, disgusted.
Someone touched his shoulder and Dicken jumped.
“How does James Bond do it?” asked a jovial fellow in a green sport jacket and beige slacks. With his balding pate, round, red Santa nose, lime green golf shirt bulging at the belly, and belt tightened severely to reclaim some girth, the middle-aged man looked like a tourist with a snootful. He smelled like one, too.
“Do what?” Dicken asked.
“Get the babes when they all know they’re just going to die.” The balding man surveyed Dicken with a jaundiced, watery eye. “I can’t figure it.”
“Do I know you?” Dicken asked gravely.
“I’ve got friends watching every porthole. We know the local spooks, and this place is not as haunted as some.”
Dicken put down his beer. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Is Dr. Jurie your peer?” the man asked softly, pulling up another stool.
Dicken knocked his stool over in his haste to get up. He left the bar quickly, on the lookout for anyone too clean-cut, too vigilant.
The balding man shrugged, reached across the table to grab a handful of peanuts, then crumpled Dicken’s red serviette and slipped it into his pocket.
Dicken drove away from the hotel and parked briefly on a side street beside a used car lot. He was breathing heavily. “Christ, Christ, Cheee-rist,” he said softly, waiting for his heart to slow.
His cell phone rang and he jumped, then flipped it open.
“Dr. Dicken?”
“Yes.” He tried to sound coldly professional.
“This is Laura Bloch. I believe we have an appointment.”
Dicken drove up behind the blue Chevrolet and switched off his engine and lights. The desert surrounding Tramway Road was quiet and the air was warm and still; city lights illuminated low, spotty cumulus clouds to the south. A door swung open on the Chevrolet and a man in a dark suit got out and walked back to peer into his open window.
“Dr. Dicken?”
Dicken nodded.
“I’m Special Agent Bracken, Secret Service. ID, please?”
Dicken produced his Georgia driver’s license.
“Federal ID?”
Dicken held out his hand and the agent whisked a scanner over the back. He had been chipped six years ago. The agent glanced at the scanner display and nodded. “We’re good,” he said. “Laura Bloch is in the car. Please proceed forward and take a seat in the rear.”
“Who was the guy in the bar?” Dicken asked.
Special Agent Bracken shook his head. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea, sir.”
“Joke?” Dicken asked.
Bracken smiled. “He was the best we could do on short notice. Good people with experience are kind of in short supply now, if you get my meaning. Slim pickings for honest folks.”
“Yeah,” Dicken said. Special Agent Bracken opened the door and Dicken walked to the Chevrolet.
Bloch’s appearance was a surprise to him. He had never seen pictures and at first he was not impressed. With her prominent eyes and fixed expression, she resembled a keen little pug. She held out her hand and they shook before Dicken slid in beside her on the rear seat, lifting his leg to clear the door frame.
“Thank you for meeting with me,” she said.
“Part of the assignment, I guess.”
“I’m curious why Jurie asked for you,” Bloch said. “Any theories?”
“Because I’m the best there is,” Dicken said.
“Of course.”
“And he wants to keep me where he can see me.”
“Does he know?”
“That NIH is keeping an eye on him? No doubt. That I’m speaking with you, now, I certainly hope not.”
Bloch shrugged. “Matters little in the long run.”
“I should get back soon. I’ve been gone a little too long for comfort, probably.”
“This will just take a few minutes. I’ve been told to brief you.”
“Who told you?”
“Mark Augustine said you should be prepped before things start happening.”
“Say hello to Mark,” Dicken said.
“Our man in Damascus,” Bloch said.
“Beg your pardon? I don’t get the reference.”
“Saw the light on the road to Damascus.” She regarded Dicken with one eye half closed. “He’s being very helpful. He tells us Emergency Action is soon going to be forced to do some questionable things. Their scientific underpinnings are coming under severe scrutiny. They have to hit pay dirt within a certain window of public fear, and that window may be closing. The public is getting tired of standing on tiptoes for the likes of Rachel Browning. Browning has put all her hopes on Sandia Pathogenics. So far, she’s keeping the Hill off her back by appealing to fear, national security, and national defense, all wrapped in tight secrecy. But it’s Mark’s belief that Pathogenics will have to violate some pretty major laws to get what they want, even should it exist.”
“What laws?”
“Let’s leave that open for now. What I’m here to tell you is that the political winds are about to shift. The White House is sending out feelers to Congress on rescinding Emergency Action’s blanket mandate. Cases are coming up in the Supreme Court.”
“They’ll support EMAC. Six to three.”
“Right,” Bloch said. “But based on our polling, we’re pretty sure that’s going to backfire. What’s the science look like so far, from the Sandia perspective?”
“Interesting. Nothing very useful to Browning. But I’m not privy to what’s going on with all the samples brought in from Arizona—”
“The Sable Mountain School,” Bloch said.
“That’s the main source.”
“Goddamned bastard is consistent.”
Dicken sat back and waited for Bloch’s face to clear an expression of angry disgust, then concluded, “There’s no evidence that social interaction or stress is causing viral recombination. Not in SHEVA kids.”
“So why is Jurie persisting?”
“Momentum, mostly. And fear. Real fear. Jurie is convinced that puberty is going to do the trick. That, and pregnancy.”
“Jesus,” Bloch said. “What do you think?”
“I doubt it. But it’s still a possibility.”
“Do they suspect you’re working with outside interests? Beyond NIH, I mean?”
“Of course,” Dicken said. “They’d be fools not to.”
“So, what is it with Jurie—a death wish?”
Dicken shook his head. “Calculated risk. He thinks I could be useful, but he’ll bring me into the loop only when it’s necessary and not a second before. Meanwhile, he keeps me busy doing far-out stuff.”
“How do the others feel about what Pathogenics is doing?”
“Nervous.”
Bloch clenched her teeth.
Dicken watched her jaw muscles work. “Sorry not to be more helpful,” he said.
“I will never understand scientists,” she murmured.
“I don’t understand people,” Dicken said. “Anybody.”
“Fair enough. All right,” Bloch said. “We have about a week and a half. Supreme Court is scheduled to release their decision on Remick v. the state of Ohio. Senator Gianelli wants to be ready when the White House is forced to cut a deal.”
Dicken fixed her gaze and raised his hand. “May I have my say?”