What Andrew Bradosky was really interested in was a better-paying job. Perhaps that was the reason he had maneuvered himself into the life of Mary Klipot. Had he met her in a bar or at a social gathering, she would never have progressed beyond small talk, but at Fort Detrick, the microbiologist had an intellectual flare that made her pseudoattractive. Andrew dubbed this the “Tony Soprano effect.” In real life, a fat, balding middle-aged man like the HBO character could never get the kind of pussy he got on the show, but being a mob boss gave him a certain flare that attracted beautiful, albeit problematic women.
Mary Klipot’s intellect and job title empowered her in the same manner. The fact that she was a loner working in-charge of a BSL-4 lab only made getting to know her that much more enticing.
The first day he had introduced himself at lunch was beyond awkward.
During the second lunch encounter, she had walked away.
For the next two weeks, she had avoided him by eating lunch in her lab. Ever the opportunist, Andrew learned that Mary worked out in the campus gym every other morning. Playing it cool, he began showing up to pump iron, never acknowledging her presence until the third workout. A few hellos led to small talk, enough to set the introverted redhead at ease.
His diligence paid off a month later when Mary selected him as a lab tech for Project Scythe.
Andrew stepped off the hotel elevator, following arrowed signs to room 310. He knocked twice, then once, then twice more.
The door swung open, Ernest Lozano beckoning him in. He pointed to the bed, reserving the desk chair for himself. “So how are things at work?”
“We’re progressing nicely.”
“I didn’t summon you for a weather report. When will the agent be weaponized?”
“You said spring. We’re on target. March or April, for sure.”
Andrew never saw the stiletto until its point was inches away from his right eye. The lanky agent’s powerful upper body leaned over him, pushing him back on the mattress, his face so close, the lab technician could smell a whiff of Alfredo sauce mixed in with the Aqua Velva aftershave. “We’ve paid you fifty thousand. For fifty grand I want assurances, not best guesses.”
Andrew forced a nervous grin. “Easy big fella. We’re on track, at least we were until Mary found out she was pregnant. Things got sort of complicated, but we’re working it out, I swear.”
Lozano backed off the bed. “Is it yours?”
Andrew sat up, wiping beads of sweat from his forehead. “That’s where it gets complicated. Mary’s a strict Catholic girl. Last April, we went to Cancún together and sort of got toasted doing shots of tequila.”
“So you busted her.”
“Yeah, but she doesn’t remember anything about it, and all things considered, I figured it’d be best if I left it that way. But now that she’s pregnant…”
“You told her?”
“I tried. She’s convinced it was an immaculate conception. You gotta understand what I’m dealing with here. When it comes to biowarfare and genetically altering viruses, Mary Klipot’s as brilliant as they come. Stuff like sex and emotional bonding and normal-relationship crap, she’s like a functional retard. I mean, there’s some seriously dark shit floating around in this chick’s head… spooky shit. So hell yeah, if she wants to believe she’s carrying Jesus’s kid, who am I to tell her otherwise. As long as you keep paying me, I’ll play father Joseph to her mother Mary, but the moment Scythe is ready for deployment, I’m outta there.”
Lozano crossed the room, returning to the desk chair. “When is she due?”
“Third week in January, though she’s convinced the doctor’s lying. She swears baby Jesus will be born on Christmas Day.”
“You need to stabilize the situation.”
“How?”
“Propose marriage. Move in together. Tell her you want to be the baby’s surrogate father. Don’t do anything to rock the boat. Meanwhile, tie in the Scythe deadline with the baby’s birth. Push her to finish as soon as possible, so she can take a long maternity leave.”
“That could backfire. Scythe’s supervisor, Lydia Gagnon, is already talking about bringing in another microbiologist or two. Mary agreed we need to keep things as proprietary as possible, especially after all those sanctions.”
“What sanctions?”
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, friend. You and your CIA pals started offing microbiologists at a steady clip right after 9/11. Six Israeli dudes shot down on two different airliners, that cell biologist at the University of Miami… the Soviet defector who had his head smashed in with a hammer. Mary knew Set Van Nguyen, and she went to grad school with Tanya Holzmayer. Tanya was shot dead when she answered the door for a pizza-delivery boy. Guyang Huang was shot in the head while jogging in a park in Foster City. Nineteen dead scientists in the first four months following 9/11, another seventy-one while Bush and Cheney were still in office. Bodies found in suitcases, two in freezers, a half dozen in car accidents. No arrests, everything kept out of the news and swept conveniently under the carpet. All of these eggheads had two things in common: Each worked for facilities that performed black ops biomedical research for the CIA, and they were all considered frontline scientists who would be selected to stop a global pandemic, should one ever break out.”
Andrew got up off the bed, his feeble act of defiance building into a rehearsed speech. “You wanna use Scythe to wipe out a bunch of towel-heads, go for it, but here are my terms: First, forget the hundred grand, that was a down payment. I want two million deposited into my Credit Suisse account, fifty grand a week from now through March, with the balance due the week we turn over Scythe. Second, as insurance against pizza-delivery boys carrying guns and hammers, I’ve instructed attorneys in several different states to deliver the details of Scythe and our little arrangement to certain members of the foreign press in the event something should happen to me.”
Lozano’s expression caused Andrew’s cockiness to crawl back up his sphincter. “Deliver Scythe by March 1, and you might just live to spend your money. Fail, and you’ll join the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus in an unmarked grave.”
The East River glistens olive green as they head south across the bridge for Brooklyn.
“Your fastball had nice movement, your breaking ball froze their right-handed batters. But the college ranks and minor leagues are full of losing pitchers with great stuff. We need to start working on your mental game.”
Coach Segal is driving the van, one of two school vehicles transporting Roosevelt High’s varsity baseball team home from a 3-to-1 playoff victory in the district quarterfinals. Patrick Shepherd is up front in the passenger seat. The sixteen-year-old junior is today’s winning pitcher. Squeezed in between Patrick and his baseball coach is Morrie Segal’s daughter. Shep’s classmate and best friend is resting her head against his left shoulder, her eyes closed—
— her right hand snaking its way playfully beneath the baseball glove and warm-up jacket resting on his left thigh, her touch sending jolts of electricity through his groin.