The man in khakis keyed a radio and spoke: “Comms, Graeter. Get Doc and the biohazard team to the galley.” He had a bud in his right ear, so only he could hear the other side. He spoke again: “There’s blood. A lot. One female down. Harriet Lanahan.” To the EMTs he said, “You help them with the body when they get here. Doc will need to see it and take photographs. After, secure it in the morgue. I’ll get a flyout as soon as possible.”
He turned on the crowd of onlookers. Hallie saw anger in the abrupt move and heard it in his voice. Maybe it’s the default condition here, she thought. “I want witness statements in my email by thirteen hundred hours.”
“What if we didn’t see anything?” someone called.
“Then say that in your email, for Christ’s sake. I may talk to some of you later. Listen up: paging response has been shit-sloppy. If you hear your name, I’d better see you in my office pronto or learn a good reason why not. Now let’s clear this area. The bio team will be here soon.”
Hallie started to follow Bacon and the others out, but a hand landed on her shoulder. She turned to see the man in khakis.
“You’re Leland?” he asked.
“I just got here. I was going to see you after—”
He looked as if she had said something offensive. “Zack Graeter. Follow me.”
3
“Wait one,” said Graeter.
His desk was a massive steel relic from the 1950s that occupied practically half of the office. He turned away and began jabbing his computer’s keyboard with two long, stiff index fingers.
She decided to give nice a try. “My grandfather had a Buick about the size of that desk.”
He didn’t look up. There was no other chair and not much to see. The smudged, lima bean — green walls were bare except for a gray metal cabinet hanging behind him and an eight-by-ten color photograph of a woman thumbtacked to the wall opposite him. Throwing darts were stuck in and around the photo, which looked like it had been blasted with No. 8 birdshot. He stopped typing and turned back to her.
“Your ETA was tomorrow.” He made no effort to stand and shake hands, causing Hallie to wonder if he was protecting her from germs or just rude.
He looked rude, if such a thing were possible. There was not much more to him than muscle strung over bone and wrapped in white skin. Steel-wool hair, high forehead, cheekbones like golf balls. A thin, hard mouth cast in a downward curve. His khaki pants and shirt were crisp, his black shoes and brass belt buckle polished to a sheen.
I’ll eat that skinny little tie, thought Hallie, if he’s not ex-Navy.
“McMurdo had a flight with space. I figured an extra day would be valuable, with winterover so close. But—”
He waved off the explanation. “I don’t like unscheduled arrivals. I can’t give you the safety tour today.”
A woman just bled out and we’re talking about schedules? “What happened back there?”
“In the galley?” he asked.
“Unless somebody died in another place that I’m not aware of.”
That got more of his attention. “It looked to me like Dr. Harriet Lanahan suffered a fatal hemorrhage. She was a glaciologist. From the U.K. But Merritt does the Beakers.”
She waited.
He waited longer.
“That’s it?” she asked.
“If you know more than that, please enlighten me.”
“It’s what I don’t know that’s bothering me. First, how could it have happened? And second, I’m struck by your sang … by your lack of concern.”
“I know what sangfroid means, Ms. Leland. Annapolis isn’t Harvard, but it’s not a goddamned community college. First, we won’t know how it could have happened until the medical examiner in Christchurch performs an autopsy and issues his report. Second, that wasn’t my first fatality.” He fixed her with what was obviously meant to be a commanding glare. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is the South Pole. It is very easy to die here.”
She folded her arms, looked around for some clue to this strange man, but saw only the dirty green walls, punctured photograph, and that cabinet.
He sighed, raised beat-up hands. “Would you prefer it if I cried and beat my breast? Tore out some hair?”
Talking with him was like striking flint to steel. But this was terra incognita, after all, the manager and the station and the South Pole. The whole continent, for that matter. Until she understood everything better, she would do her best to be civil. “Had the woman been sick? Was there any warning that this might have happened? A precondition, maybe? There’s a doctor here, right?”
“Why all the questions? You didn’t even know her.”
“First, she’s a human being. Second, I’m a field investigator for CDC. Pathogens are what I do. Third, once the word gets out, reporters will be asking questions. It would be nice if my boss had some answers. Yours might be wanting some, too, I’d bet.”
In his eyes she saw a new flicker — amusement or irritation, maybe both. “If she had been sick, Agnes Merritt would know. She’s the chief scientist. Lanahan was a Beaker and worked for her. If there had been some precondition, Doc might have known.” He hoisted his eyebrows, pointed one bony finger. “For the record, I don’t give a fiddlefuck about bosses, and my job description does not include grief counselor. I won’t bore you with the details of my workload, but with winterover four point five days away I am well and truly — excuse my French—fucked, and you are keeping me from getting unfucked.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. But if you recall, it was you who asked me to come in here.”
“And if you recall, it was not to talk about Dr. Lanahan.”
“What happened to your hands?” They were painful to look at, red and cracked, oozing.
“Pole hands. Basically zero humidity here. Skin takes a beating.”
Pole throat, Pole cold, Pole hands, she thought. What’s next? Pole brain, probably.
“It looks painful.”
“At first. Then the nerves die.”
“Good thing you don’t play piano.”
“Actually, I do. Just not allegro anymore.”
She tried to imagine him banging out show tunes at cocktail parties. The image wouldn’t gel. “That happens to everybody?”
“Pretty much. You don’t look so good yourself, Ms. Leland. Maybe you should think about catching the next flight out.”
4
It was early Monday morning. Don Barnard, who had never been a late sleeper, was sitting with coffee in the study of his Silver Spring home. He was a big man, twenty pounds heavier than in his days playing tight end for the University of Virginia thirty-five years earlier. His hair and mustache were both white and the skin of his face was heavily creased from squinting in the bright sun while sailing on the Chesapeake Bay. His wife, Lucianne, was still in bed.
Barnard glanced at the clock on his desk: 5:12 A.M. It was 5:12 A.M. on Monday at the South Pole, as well. All lines of longitude converged there, so it existed, in a way, out of time. Since the National Science Foundation, just outside Washington, ran operations there, NSF time was Pole time. Not only habit had gotten Barnard out of bed early that morning. He had been awake for at least an hour before rising, thinking about Hallie. And he had suffered the same thoughts, off and on, for two days running.
Donald Barnard, MD, PhD, was the director of BARDA — the Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority — created by President George W. Bush in 2006 to counter biowarfare threats. BARDA also conducted a clandestine initiative called Project BioShield. Thus Barnard’s work required that he keep secrets — a good many, really. He was not the kind of man to keep secrets from himself, however. An only child whose father had died when he was seven, Barnard had always envied friends from big families. He had wanted a sprawling family of his own, had entertained visions of himself old and doting, rocking in a large chair in front of a fire, his lap overflowing with grandchildren while his sons and daughters stood around drinking wine and laughing over old sibling dustups.