“Those twins had their hooters in your face when I walked in.”
“It’s my job, babe. Part of the new image. You know, the ‘Boston Strangler.’”
The blonde sneers in disgust. “Who are you? Your ego’s so out of control, I barely recognize you anymore.”
“What are you talking about? This is what we wanted… we’re living the dream.”
“Your dream, not mine. I don’t want to be married to some egomaniac, wondering whose bed he’s sleeping in when he’s not in mine.”
“That’s not fair. I’ve never cheated on you.”
“No, but you’re tempted. Face it, Shep, we’ve been together since we were kids. Tell me you’re not the least bit curious about being with another woman, especially now, when they’re practically throwing themselves at you.”
He says nothing, unable to lie to her.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought. So here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going back to Boston with our daughter while you decide if you’d rather get some strange from the Ooh-La-La twins or be tied down to a family. Better get it out of your system now. I don’t want you waking up three or five or ten years from now, thinking you made a mistake.” Grabbing the baby’s diaper bag, she heads for the door.
“Honey, wait—”
The blonde turns around, tears in her eyes. “Just remember, Patrick Shepherd, sometimes you don’t really appreciate the things you have until you lose them.”
Patrick moaned into his pillow, unable to shake himself loose from the drug-induced sleep.
A shaken Jeffrey Cook, head of the United Nations Department of Safety and Security (UNDSS) led the seven men dressed in Racal suits, full-face rebreathers, boots, and heavy gloves into the General Assembly Building’s control room. “Can I have your attention please?”
A dozen pairs of eyes looked up from their security monitors.
“This is Captain Zwawa from the infectious disease lab in Fort Detrick. He needs our help with a possible security breach.”
“Jesus, what’s going on?”
“Is the air safe to breathe?”
“Are we under attack?”
“Stay calm.” Jay Zwawa held up the copy of the USAMIRIID identity photos. “We need you to locate this man and woman. One or both may have entered one of the United Nations buildings as early as eight o’clock this morning. We need to know which buildings they entered, who they came in contact with, and whether they left the building.”
Zwawa’s team passed around copies of Mary Klipot and Andrew Bradosky’s photo to each technician, along with a CD.
“The CD file contains the suspects’ DNA markers. Run it through your surveillance system and search for a match. Start with the General Assembly Building before moving on to the rest of the UN complex.”
“Who are they? Are we in any danger?”
“Shouldn’t we be wearing protective suits, too?”
“The suits are a precaution for my frontliners. As long as you remain in this room, you’ll be fine.”
One of the techs looked worried. “I took a bathroom break about ten minutes ago.”
“One of our medical staff will check you out.”
“Medical staff? My God, is there a biological alert?”
“Easy. We’re not even sure the suspects entered the UN complex.”
The technicians inserted the CDs into their computer hard drives and cross-checked facial markers, using the morning surveillance tapes.
Jeffrey Cook pulled Captain Zwawa aside. “Your men are blocking the exits. You can’t do that.”
“It’s a security precaution. No one leaves the UN complex without being checked.”
“Checked for what?”
“You’ll know if and when I decide to tell you. Let’s hope it’s not an issue.”
“What about the diplomats? The heads of state? You can’t tell these people they’re not allowed to leave. They have diplomatic immunity.”
“No one leaves unless they’re medically cleared. Those orders are backed by the Pentagon and the White House.”
“What about the president? Are you going to tell him he can’t leave?”
“The president’s here?”
“He’s in the General Assembly Hall, addressing the Security Council as we speak.”
“Got her!”
All heads turned to Cameron Hughes, a wheelchair-bound security technician. Jeffrey Cook hovered over the man’s shoulder, staring at the frozen black-and-white partially blurred image on his monitor. The computer pixelized, sharpening its genetic markers until Mary Louise Klipot’s face appeared ominously on-screen.
“Cam, where was this taken?”
“Main entrance. Aw hell, look at the time code… 9:11.”
Sweat dripped from Captain Zwawa’s face. He fought the urge to tear the stifling hood from his head. “Fast-forward the tape. Where does she go?”
The image jumped from one angle to the next, following Mary Klipot through several checkpoints until she entered the General Assembly Hall. They lost her inside the darkened auditorium.
“Get a security detail—”
“Sir, wait!” The image switched back to the corridor. “Look, she exited. See? She’s speaking with security. Heading for the elevators.”
The weight of time registered like extra gravity upon Jay Zwawa. He was an hour behind the eight ball, every minute of tape revealing another potentially infected victim, every second that went by allowing Scythe to spread throughout the United Nations complex.
“This is taking too long. Accelerate the tape, I need to know if she’s still in the building. Cook, we’ll need the names of every person she came in contact with, then I want the names of every person those people came in contact with.”
“Are you crazy? You’re talking hundreds, perhaps thousands of people. I don’t have the manpower—”
“The woman we’re after may have infected herself with a very contagious, very lethal form of bubonic plague. Every person she came within breathing distance of is a potential victim and carrier. Do your job, do it fast, and nobody leaves this room.”
Zwawa removed a cell phone from his Racal suit’s utility belt. He pressed a preprogrammed number with a gloved index finger, his other hand working the controls of the headset situated within his hood—
— switching from Fort Detrick’s command post to his older brother’s secured cell-phone number.
The Fort Detrick Command Center had become the central hub for communication, linking the Oval Office, Pentagon, and assorted members of Congress in an endless debate of babel. Tired of listening to the Joint Chiefs arguing with the vice president and his staff, Colonel John Zwawa was headed for the sanctuary of his office when his private cell phone reverberated silently in his back pants pocket. “Speak.”
“Vicious, it’s Delicious. Can you talk?”
“Stand by, Jay.” The colonel closed his office door to speak with his brother. “How bad is it?”
“It’s a major clusterfuck with tentacles. All those who were in the General Assembly Hall were infected. We’re not sure how bad, but POTUS is in there right now, addressing the condemned.”
“Hell, Jay Zee, get him out of there.”
“Sure thing. Just tell me how to do that without causing widespread panic and losing containment.”
The colonel’s mind raced. “Bomb scare. I’ll alert the Secret Service. Have your team standing by outside the chamber. Use the ESU guys to channel the delegates to their offices in the Secretariat Building, we’ll lock them down from there. Once they’re isolated, it’ll be easier for the CDC teams to do a floor-to-floor triage.”