“How many will there be?” Gianelli asked.
“Tens of thousands,” Kaye said. “Maybe more.”
“Jesus, Homer, and Jethro Christ,” Gianelli said, and leaned back, his tall chair creaking on old steel springs. As if to calm himself, he raised his arms and folded his hands behind his head. “How's your daughter?”
“She's in a camp in Arizona,” Kaye said.
“Good old Charlie Chase and his wonderful state of Arizona. But how isshe, Dr. Rafelson?”
“Healthy. She's found friends.”
Gianelli shook his head. Kaye could not tell what he was thinking or feeling. “It could be a rough meeting,” he said. “Laura, let's give Dr. Rafelson a quick tour of the subcommittee's players.”
“I was briefed in Baltimore,” Kaye said.
“Nobody knows ‘em better than we do, right, Laura?”
“Nobody,” Laura Bloch said.
“Laura's daughter, Annie, died at Joseph Goldberger,” the senator said.
“I'm sorry,” Kaye said, and suddenly her eyes filled with tears.
Bloch patted Kaye's arm and set her face in grim reserve. “She was a sweet kid,” she said. “A little dreamy.” She drew herself up. “You are about to testify before a baboon, two cobras, a goose, a certified bull ape, and a spotted leopard.”
“Senator Percy is the baboon,” Gianelli said. “Jakes and Corcoran are the cobras, lying low in the grass. They hate being on this committee, however, and I doubt they'll ask you anything.”
“Senator Thomasen is chairperson. She's the goose,” Bloch said. “She likes to think she's keeping the other animals in order, but she has no fixed opinions herself. Senator Chase claims to be on our side—”
“He's the bull ape,” Gianelli said.
“But we don't know how he'll vote, push comes to shove,” Bloch finished.
Gianelli glanced at his watch. “I'm going to bring you in first. Laura tells me the director is still stuck in traffic.”
“Twenty minutes away,” Bloch said.
“She's working hard to get the directorship of EMAC legislated into a Cabinet-level position, giving her sole budgetary control. The director is our leopard.” Gianelli scratched his upper lip with a forefinger. “We expect you to help us counter her suggestions, which are bound to be nasty beyond belief.”
“All right,” Kaye said.
“Mark Augustine will be there,” Bloch said. “Any problem with that?” she asked Kaye.
“No,” Kaye said.
“You two get along?”
“We disagreed,” said Kaye, “but we worked together.”
Bloch made a fleeting face of dubiety.
“We'll take our chances,” Gianelli said with a snuffle.
“You should never take chances,” Bloch advised, producing another handkerchief from her purse.
“I alwaystake chances,” Gianelli said. “That's why I'm here.” He blew his nose. “Goddamned allergies,” he added, and watched Kaye's reaction. “Washington is full of snotty noses.”
“No problem,” Kaye said. “I'm a mommy.”
“Good,” Bloch said. “We need a pro.”
6
NEW MEXICO
Dr. Jurie's office was small and crammed with boxes, as if he had arrived only a few days before. Jurie pushed back his old Aeron chair as Dicken and Turner entered.
The shelves around the office were lightly populated with a few battered college texts, favorites for quick reference, and binders filled with what Dicken assumed were scientific papers. He counted seven metal lab stools in the small room, arranged in a cramped half-circle around the desk. The desk supported a flat top computer with two panels popped up, displaying results from two experiments.
“Acclimatizing, Dr. Dicken?” Jurie asked. “Altitude treating you well?”
“Doing fine, thank you,” Dicken said. Turner and Presky assumed relaxed hunched positions on their stools.
Jurie motioned for Dicken to sit in a second old Aeron, on the other side of the desk. He had to push past a stack of boxes to fit into the chair, which bent his leg painfully. Once he sat, he wondered if he would be able to get up again.
Jurie wore brown oxfords, wool slacks, a dark blue shirt with a broad collar, and a sleeveless, cream-colored knit sweater, all clean but rumpled. At fifty-five, his features were still youthfully handsome, his body lean. He had the kind of face that would have fit well right above the collar of an Arrow shirt in a magazine ad. Had he smoked a pipe, Dicken would have thought him a cliché scientist. His body was too small, however, to complete the Oppenheimer effect. Dicken guessed his height at barely five feet three inches.
“I've invited more of our research group heads to join us. I apologize for showing you off, Dr. Dicken.” Jurie reached over to send the flat top into sleep mode, then rotated in his chair, back and forth.
A woman's head poked through the door and pushed a fist in to rap on the inside wall.
“Ah,” Jurie said. “Dee Dee. Dr. Blakemore. Always prompt.”
“To a fault,” the woman said. In her late thirties, comfortably rotund, with long mousy hair and a self-assured expression, she pushed through the door and sat with some difficulty on a stool. In the next few minutes, four others joined them in the room, but remained standing.
“Thank you all for coming,” Jurie started the meeting. “We are all here to greet Dr. Dicken.”
Two of the men had entered holding cans of beer, apparently cadged from the party. Dicken noted that one—Dr. Orlin Miller, formerly of Western Washington University—still favored Bud Light over Heineken.
“We're a relaxed group,” Jurie said. “Somewhat informal.” He never smiled, and as he spoke, he made small, unexpected hesitations between words. “What we're essentially interested in, here at Pathogenics, is how diseases use us as genetic libraries and reservoirs. Also, how we've adapted to these inroads and learned to use the diseases. It doesn't really matter whether viruses are rogue genes from inside us, or outside invaders—the result is the same, a constant battle for advantage and control. Sometimes we win, sometimes we lose, right?”
Dicken could not disagree.
“I've listened to all the media babble about virus children, and frankly I don't give a damn whether they're the products of disease or evolution. Evolution isa disease, for all I know. What I want to learn is how viruses can recombine and kill us.
“Not coincidentally, if we learn how that works, we have a pretty important weapon for both national defense and offense. This is the age of gene and germ, and whatever subtle little perversions we can think of, our enemies can also think of. Which is a pretty good reason to keep Sandia Pathogenics funded and running at fool steam, which we all will benefit from.”
“Amen,” said Turner.
I heard “fool steam,”Dicken thought, and looked around the room. Did anybody else? Fool steam ahead.
“Dr. Presky, shall we show Dr. Dicken our zoo?” Jurie asked.
7
NEAR LUBBOCK, TEXAS
Mitch had lost everything important, but once again he had dirt and bone chips and pottery. He was back in the field, carrying a small spade and a kit full of brushes. Starting from scratch was an archaeologist's definition of workaday life, and he was definitely starting from scratch, all over again.
Around him, a neat square hole in the earth had been sculpted into many terraces on which sat fragments of flint, the crushed remains of what might have once been a wicker basket, a rough oval of shards from a small pot, and the thing that had absorbed his attention all day: an engraved shell.
The sun had set several hours ago and he was working by the light of a Coleman lantern. Down in the hole, all colors had long since turned to gray and brown. Brown was the color he knew best. Beige, gray, black, brown. The brown dust in his nose made everything smell like dry earth. A brown, neutral smell.