CODE RED [042-5.0]

By: Nancy Fisher

Synopsis:

Dedicated virologist Luci Nash went to Peru to bring medicine to remote
parts of the world.  Against a backdrop of human suffering, she fell in
love with Jean Pierre Dither, a physician researching a deadly new
viral contagion.  But in a matter of days, her romance was shattered,
her faith shaken, and her world became a frightening place of secrets,
lies and medical cover ups.  Seeking answers, Luci returns to New York
and becomes enmeshed in a conspiracy of epidemic proportions.  No one
is what they seem, not the charismatic doctor with a miraculous gift
for fund raising, or the renowned biologist who has begun to occupy a
special place in Luci's life.  Caught between one man's desire and
another man's hatred, Luci realizes that the truth lies within her own
laboratory--a terrifying revelation that could ignite the deadliest
outbreak of all.

A SIGNET BOOK

SIGNET Published by the Penguin Group Penguin Putnam Inc
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

Penguin Books Ltd, 27 Wrights Lane, London W8 5TZ, England

Penguin
Books Australia Ltd, Ringwood, Victoria, Australia

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Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex,
England

First published by Signet, an imprint of Dutton Signet, a
member of Penguin Putnam Inc.

First Printing, February, 1998

10 987654321

Copyright (c) Nancy Fisher, 1998

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK--MARCA REOISTRADA

Printed in the United States of America Without limiting the rights
under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or
transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written
permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this
book.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places,
and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are
used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

BOOKS ARE AVAILABLE AT QUANTITY DISCOUNTS WHEN USED TO PROMOTE PRODUCTS
OR SERVICES.  FOR INFORMATION PLEASE WRITE TO PREMIUM MARKETING
DIVISION, PENGUIN PUTNAM INC 375 HUDSON STREET.  NEW YORK, NEW YORK
10014.

If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that
this book is stolen property.  It was reported as "unsold and
destroyed" to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher
has received any payment for this "stripped book."

For Sarah, with love

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks as always to my
brother.  Dr. Robert Fisher of Minneapolis, for sharing his impressive
medical expertise with me.  I'm also grateful to the eminent
cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. Barry Gold for the opportunity to soak up
operating room atmosphere while watching him do the impossible, and to
Dr. Barry Hartman, noted infectious disease specialist, who was so
generous with his time and expertise.  Cecelia Wennerstrom and Chester
Huie welcomed me into their virology laboratories and patiently
answered my many questions.  And Linda Urmacher, a generous friend and
efficient volunteer researcher, supplied me with much interesting
data.

Any errors are mine, not theirs.

As always, the contributions of my agent, Robert Diforio, and my
editor, Hilary Ross, are highly valued and much appreciated.  And my
daughter, Sarah, and my mother, Tema, lavished upon me their usual love
and encouragement.

CODE RED: A call to action to deal with an urgent, life-threatening
emergency.

THE FOLLOWING ADVISORY HAS BEEN POSTED ON THE INTERNET SINCE MARCH
1996

THE CENTERS FOR DISEASE CONTROL HAS REQUESTED THAT THE FOLLOWING
ADVISORY BE ISSUED TO ALL MEMBERS OF ASV IN LIGHT OF RECENT DISTURBING
EVENTS INVOLVING REQUESTS FOR SHIPMENT OF DANGEROUS BIOLOGICAL AGENTS
TO QUESTIONABLE RECIPIENTS: 11 March 1996

Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) In recent years, the
threat of terrorist activity involving the use of biological agents has
raised increasing concern from the perspective of both public health
and national security. Accordingly the Centers for Disease Control and
Prevention (CDC) has serious concerns about the illicit use and the
interstate transportation of certain human pathogens that could have
adverse consequences for human health and safety.

To immediately address this issue, CDC requests that all those who
authorize the acquisition and transfer of dangerous human infectious
agents increase their vigilance to minimize the risk of illicit access
to infectious agents by: 1. reviewing all requests prior to
transferring pathogens and toxins, particularly any request regarding
the agents causing anthrax, botulism, brucellosis, plague, Q-fever,
tularemia, and any agents classified for work at Biosafety Level 4;

determining whether agents will be used for legitimate medical or
scientific purposes; and 3. immediately reporting any suspicious
inquiries or transactions to CDC's Office of Health and Safety, at
(404) 639-3235 (nights and weekends, call the CDC Duty Officer at 404

6392888).

These voluntary safeguards are a first step toward strengthening
regulatory and statutory protections.

CDC co-chairs a Federal interdepartmental working group that is
developing a framework for controlling the acquisition and transfer of
infectious agents. This framework will include safeguards to control
access to microbial agents of particular concern while ensuring that
researchers and others who have a legitimate scientific need for these
agents have appropriate access to them. This approach will require
close collaboration among researchers, their institutional biosafety
officials and committees, and providers of these agents.

The CDC will soon be proposing new regulations regarding the
acquisition and transfer of certain biological agents. The regulations
will be developed with input from professional associations, the
research community, law enforcement authorities, and concerned members
of the public. A Notice of Proposed Rule Making will be published in
the Federal Register for public review and comment in approximately 120
days.

In addition, the Department of Justice is working to strengthen
relevant criminal statutes to enable prosecution of those who attempt
to gain illicit access to these agents.

Sincerely, David Satcher, M.D Ph.D. Director Centers for Disease
Control and Prevention

Chapter One.

She was still half asleep when her feet hit the floor, her hand reaching
for the bedside clock while her mind puzzled over its strident ringing.
She sat for a moment on the edge of the metal cot, blinking in the
darkness.

She felt dull and edgy. She shivered in the early morning coolness,
knowing it wasn't just the temperature.

The blood was starting to get to her. Not the blood itself--she was used
to blood--but the horror that was in it.

She turned to the figure beside her and shook him gently. "Time to get
up, Jean."

He groaned and rolled over, then sat up. "Merde. What's the time?"

"Five-thirty. The pilot wants to leave by seven."

"Are you sure you want to come? It's over an hour to the airstrip.

And you'll be driving back alone."

"I've done it before. I picked you up when you flew in, remember?"

"How could I forget? You drive like a marine." His smile warmed her.

He ran his fingers through her short dark curls, then swiveled around
and began the daily ritual of shaking out his boots; who knew what might
have crawled in through the chinks in the rough wood floor during the
night? "But tiredness can cause mistakes, sometimes fatal ones."

The words floated back over his shoulder. "And you've been going flat
out for days."

"So have you," she answered.

"Yes, but tonight I'll be sleeping in a soft bed in Lima. You'll still
be at risk in this godforsaken jungle.

You should sleep while you can."

"I'll get plenty of sleep," she told him with a smile, "with you off to
France for two weeks." She knelt on the bed and wrapped her arms around
him from behind.

"Anyway, I'll be going home, too, in a few days.

Back to New York."

He dropped the boot and turned to embrace her.

"I'll call you from Marseilles the night you get back.

Three days from now, yes? And before you know it, my aunt will be
feeling better, and I will jump on a plane and come flying home to you."

They kissed deeply and long. How quickly it had happened, this affaire
de coeur. Two doctors, sent on a mission of mercy by the prestigious
International Medical Aid organization, clinging together in the midst
of death. Finally he released her and they began to dress.

They loaded his suitcase and small carryall and the equipment bag with
its distinctive blue-and-white IMA logo into the muddy Jeep, and went
rattling across the still-sleeping compound. Beyond the wide,
bleachfilled ditch that separated and protected the staff's living
quarters from the "hot zone" of makeshift lab and hospital buildings,
Lucy could see a faint flashlight beam bobbing along a rutted path--a
nursing sister going to check on her patients. Brave woman, she thought.
Dr. Lucy Nash had trained in a hospital fellowship for infectious
diseases, then done a rigorous two-year stint in epidemiology and
virology at the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, where she'd
achieved a coveted Level Four clearance. She'd seen a myriad of viral
illnesses, but nothing as horrific as this.

The overcast sky lightened a little as they bounced along the rough
jungle track toward the small airport some twenty miles away, where a
plane waited to take Dr. Jean-Pierre Dither across the mountains to
Lima.

Lucy studied his strong hands on the wheel. Healing hands. "No new cases
for over ten days," she said.

"I'm pretty sure we've contained it. Thank God it's not airborne."

"Jesus, yes," he agreed with real feeling. Airborne, this thing would be
impossible to control. "You think we'll ever identify the host?"

Lucy shrugged. "I've been concentrating on the most likely carriers:
birds, insects, rodents, and monkeys, but the microscope studies haven't
turned up a damn thing so far. Still, it took Mackenzie four years to
identify the host of the Machupo arena virus in Bolivia, back in the
sixties.. .."

"A mouse, wasn't it?"

"Yes," she said. Around them, the rain forest chirped and grunted and
whistled and buzzed. So much life; so many possibilities. "Of course the
virus could have been imported by someone from outside the region,
someone who ate infected monkey meat miles from here. Or came in contact
with mouse or bird droppings.. .." She paused, thinking.

"Trouble is, aside from the anthropologist who came through here, the
one who told the IMA what was going on, no one's visited the village for
months, they say.

They're pretty isolated here. And even if it was brought into the area
from any distance, the carrier would have had to run here--literally
run--after being infected. Sangre negra kills so incredibly fast."

"The official name's peruvia," he corrected her.

"Sangre negra's better." Sangre negra was the name the local people had
given the disease. Sangre negra. Black blood.

"What's the count now? Forty-six dead?" His voice sounded tight,
nervous. He glanced up at the lowering sky.

"Forty-eight. More than half the village."

"Well, at least it's not as lethal as Ebola."

"Lethal enough." Lucy hesitated. "Remember that old man, the one with
the crescent scars on his neck?

He said sangre negra is an evil spirit that's come back."

Jean-Pierre shrugged. "He was raving, half crazed with fever. He cursed
the nurses, me, everyone who tried to help him. He was so nuts, he and
his wife left the isolation tent and ran off into the bush..

.

."

"Yes, but he had the blister scars. So did his wife.

If it really is something that's come back--"

"Then he'd have been immune, or at least resistant."

"But he had the scars."

"He also had peruvia," Jean-Pierre reminded her.

"Well, he had a bad fever. He disappeared before the classic sangre
negra symptoms set in, so I can't be certain--"

"Come on, Lucy. The peruvia virus was in his blood sample, yes?" She
nodded. "Then he had peruvia. So did his wife. And they both died of it,
somewhere out there." He waved a hand at the sea of green through which
they were driving.

Lucy nodded again; Jean was right, of course. One of the earth's oldest
life-forms, filoviruses were only just emerging from the rain forests of
the world. Who knew how many variations lurked there, undiscovered?

"I'm still surprised that it turned out to be a filovirus rather than a
hanta or an arena." She paused.

"It's the first filovirus ever found outside Africa."

"Marburg was found in Germany," Jean-Pierre reminded her. Identified
among laboratory workers handling vervet monkeys in 1967, Marburg was a
lethal form of hemorrhagic fever caused by a filovirus resembling that
of Ebola, another newly emergent killer.

"Yes, but Marburg was directly traceable to an African source," Lucy
replied. "Sangre negra--excuse me, peruvia--has no such connection."

She thought of the dark hemorrhages that filled the lungs and poured
from every orifice of the body during the final stages of the disease,
of the black blood blisters that formed on neck and chest and thighs,
leaving crescent-shaped marks on the skin of the survivors. Coming
face-to-face with such terrible human suffering every day was far more
emotionally wrenching than studying lethal viruses in a lab environment,
as she had at the CDC.

"Sangre negra .. . black blood." She thought of her heavy, sealed
bodysuit and boots, the surgical gown, the thick latex gloves, of the
pits in which their gear was burned and then buried at the end of every
day.

Had the flames been hot enough? Were the ashes buried sufficiently deep?

Jean-Pierre glanced over at her, sensing her mood.

"Your first IMA mission has been especially difficult."

"Are they ever easy?" she replied. "You've made, what? Ten, twelve trips
for the IMA over the past three years. Are they ever easy?"

"No, of course not."

Lucy smiled at him. "You really are .. . admirable, Jean."

Jean-Pierre looked over at her, surprised. "Me?"

"You give so much of your time, take such risks.

And yet it would be very easy for you to not to care about any of this."
Jean-Pierre cocked an eyebrow at her. "You're rich, you're very
successful.. .. You paint, you collect antiques, you play the piano.
You're not quite what I'd imagined an IMA volunteer would be like."

He laughed. "You thought we all had beards and backpacks and sandals,
like the Peace Corps?"

Lucy laughed, too. "Maybe. Anyway, I think it's all pretty terrific.

I think you're pretty terrific."

Jean-Pierre ducked his head in embarrassment. "I like to help others,"
he said softly. "It's a way of giving something back. I know you feel
the same." He glanced up at the sound of distant thunder. "I hope the
plane can take off. Jorge--" He broke off as the Jeep hit a root and
bounced hard.

"Jorge?"

"The friend I'm meeting in Lima. He has only this evening to spend with
me, and I must leave for New York tomorrow.. ." He fell quiet at the
sound of thunder, closer now, and turned onto the approach road for the
airport.

Despite the early hour, people were already gathering inside the small
terminal as Lucy and Jeanpierre maneuvered his bags toward the counter.

A thickset man in his mid-thirties, sporting a toothbrush mustache and
an official-looking identification badge, hurried across the room to
intercept them. "Jack Mcnulty, IMA rep. South America," he said
energetically.

"Believe we met in New York last year. Dr. Dither." Jean-Pierre nodded
and smiled as Mcnulty pumped his hand. "And you must be Dr. Nash," he
added, turning to Lucy. "Heard a lot about you. Good to have you on the
team. Now why don't you two get some coffee? I'll take care of these."
Lucy handed over the heavy equipment bag with relief, but Jeanpierre
hesitated, one hand grasping the leather handle of his suitcase, the
other clutching the small carryall.

"Go on," Mcnulty urged. "They're still refueling, so you've got twenty
minutes or so. I'll see this stuff gets aboard."

"Thanks," Jean-Pierre said. "Good idea." But still he hesitated,
glancing around as though looking for someone.

"Gate Three," Mcnulty told him. "Something wrong?"

Jean-Pierre shook his head, frowning. Slowly he relinquished the
suitcase, but held on to the carryall.

"Better give me your ticket," Mcnulty told him.

"For the luggage." Jean-Pierre handed over his ticket folder and Mcnulty
leafed through it. "Lima .. . New York .. . Marseilles .

.. back home to New York again. No rest for the weary, eh?"

Jean-Pierre shrugged. "My aunt is quite ill. I promised my mother I
would go to see her."

"You prefer living in New York to living in France?" Mcnulty asked.

"Can't say I would."

"Professionally, there are many advantages," Jeanpierre said. "And I
manage to return to Paris now and again to see my family."

"But you're ticketed to Marseilles."

"My aunt lives in Marseilles," Jean-Pierre told him somewhat testily.

"I think we'll have those coffees now."

"Sure, you go ahead. I'll see you at the gate."

Mcnulty hefted the luggage and moved off, and the two doctors started
toward the makeshift coffee bar.

Suddenly Jean-Pierre stopped. "I need a pit stop," he told Lucy.

"Would you get the coffees? I'll be right back."

"Okay." Lucy watched him head toward the restrooms.

His body language was anxious and strained.

Can't blame him, she thought. It's rotten weather for flying. She bought
the coffees, took them to a bench and sat sipping. What was taking him
so long? She'd nearly finished when she heard him call her name. She
turned; the door to Gate Three stood open and he stood just inside it,
gesturing to her. Beyond, the rain was pelting the runway.

"They want to get off right away," he said as she hurried over. He took
a gulp of the coffee she handed him and glanced outside, his expression
anxious.

"Dr. Dither?" A member of the flight crew appeared at his elbow, a
ticket folder in his hand. "Follow me, please," he said, handing it to
Jeanpierre. "Hurry."

"Uh, are my bags aboard?"

"Yes. Mr. Mcnulty said to tell you the claim checks are in that folder.
Please board the plane, doctor."

Jean-Pierre glanced quickly around the terminal.

"Where is Mcnulty?"

"He's already boarded."

"Boarded? He's on this flight?" The crewman nodded.

Outside, the rain increased. Turning back to Lucy, Jean-Pierre took her
in his arms. His lips brushed her ear. "Be careful."

"What?" Startled, Lucy jerked back, but he pulled her close again.

"Be careful," he repeated softly.

"I'm always careful," she told him, puzzled. "Double gloves, bodysuit--"

"That's not what I mean."

"Dr. Dither, please. You must board now," the crewman urged.

But still Jean-Pierre held her. "There is something for you in my
suitcase," he whispered.

"A present? I love presents." She had no idea what was going on, but
every instinct told her to act naturally.

"You can give it to me when I see you in New York," she said lightly,
and smiled up at him.

But he didn't return her smile. "I hope so," he said.

His eyes signaled a message she couldn't read. Then he turned abruptly
and followed the waiting crewman out into the rain.

He retrieved his passport from the immigration officer and entered the
baggage-claim area. Luggage from the Lima-New York flight was already
revolving on the metal carousels. The last few days had been busy and
somewhat tense, but he was on the home stretch now, and glad of it. A
brief stop at his apartment in New York, then on to Marseilles in the
morning.

He was loading the last of his bags onto a luggage cart when the two men
appeared, one at each side.

"Dr. Dither? Would you come with us, please?"

"What? Why?" Jean-Pierre eyed the two U.S. Customs agents with surprise
and dismay. IMA personnel were treated with great respect by every
government in the world. Their progress through airports was expedited,
their bags never inspected. "Do you know who I am?" he asked, then felt
stupid. Of course they knew who he was; they'd addressed him by name.
"Is there a problem, officer?"

"Just come this way, please, sir." One of the customs agents grasped his
elbow while the other took control of the luggage cart. "Just in here,
sir."

"I don't understand," he protested as they whisked him through an
unmarked door into a small room.

His suitcase and the IMA equipment bag were removed from the cart and
laid on a scarred wooden table. "Would you open these for us, doctor?"

He tossed over the keys. "This is ridiculous. I'm a physician, an IMA
volunteer." He was still protesting when they found the first bag of
heroin.

The aircraft was parked well away from the terminal building, and a
portable staircase had been rolled up to allow Lucy and the crew to
disembark. Now she stood on the tarmac in the failing light, watching
the sealed biohazard containers of live peruvia virus being carried out
of the cargo hold and checking off their numbers on her list. Called
"hatboxes" because of their distinctive shape, the containers had been
locked into explosion-proof plastic carriers for the flight from Peru to
New York. A windowless IMA van stood nearby, ready to transport the
hatboxes from Kennedy Airport to their ultimate destination, the Centers
for Disease Control.

The last container was being locked into the van when the black Range
Rover appeared. It braked to a stop and a slim, sandy-haired man in an
Armani blazer, jeans, and sneakers leaped out and hurried toward the
small group around the van. "Congratulations," he called to Lucy.

"Well done."

She turned, surprised but pleased. "Dr. Miller?

Bill?"

The new arrival embraced her warmly, then pulled back and looked at her.
"You're exhausted. And I'm afraid I'm not going to make your day any
easier."

"What do you mean?"

But he didn't answer, turning instead to the van driver. "All set?

Papers in order? Better get going then." As the van moved off, he took
Lucy's arm and led her toward the Range Rover. "I'll drive you home.

We can talk in the car."

"What is it? What's happened?" It had to be something pretty bad, she
thought, to bring Bill Miller, IMA's charismatic chairman and a renowned
physician in his own right, out to the airport this evening.

"Let's get out of here." They swung onto the Van Wyck Expressway.

What he had to tell her was so terribly difficult. But it would have
been cruel to let her find out any other way. "Dr. Dither .. .

Jeanpierre .. ."

"Is he all right?" Lucy felt her pulse quicken. Bill glanced over at
her. Was there something between them? he wondered. That would make what
he had to tell her so much harder, so much worse.

"He was arrested two nights ago, when he arrived here from Lima."

"Arrested? What for?"

"Customs got a tip of some kind, they said. They searched his bags."

Lucy was staring at him fearfully.

"They found drugs. Heroin."

"That's not possible!"

"Six kilos."

"I don't believe it," Lucy said numbly.

"Neither did I," Bill said gently. "But after what happened--"

"There's got to be some explanation," she interrupted.

"He's innocent, I'm sure he is. Where are they keeping him? I need to
talk--" But Bill shook his head. "I'm afraid that's impossible."

He hesitated. "They arrested him, as I said, and locked him up. He kept
saying he was innocent, that he had no knowledge of the heroin."

"Of course he didn't. He couldn't!"

"But during the night, he ... God, Lucy, it's terrible.

During the night, he committed suicide in his cell."

Lucy gasped. "No."

He leaned over and touched her arm, his kind face creased with sympathy
and concern. "I'm so very sorry," he said. "I don't know what to say."

Her body felt cold, her mind numb. Jean-Pierre, a heroin dealer.

Jean-Pierre, dead. "Jean and I ..." she began. "We were .. ."

Bill glanced over at her. So there had been something between them.

Poor woman. "You shouldn't be alone tonight," he told her. He reached
for his cellular phone. "Is there anyone I can call for you?"

Lucy shook her head. "I'll be okay." Impossible; the whole thing was
impossible. Or was it? She recalled Jean's furtiveness at the small
airport, his reluctance to let Mcnulty take his bags, his anxiety about
possibly missing Jorge in Lima. Then with a chill of fear, she
remembered his warning to her to be careful, and the mention of a gift
for her in his luggage. What had he gotten her involved in? She began to
shiver, gazing out of the window with unseeing eyes as the car rushed
through the night.

Several times during the thirty-minute drive into the city Bill started
to speak, but each time thought better of it. What could he say?

Better to let her assimilate the news in silence. But as he pulled off
the FDR and headed down York Avenue, he looked over at Lucy.

Her arms were wrapped tight around her body, the knuckles white, her
face very pale.

"Are you all right?" Bill asked.

Lucy nodded, her stomach churning. At the first red light, she opened
the door and vomited into the street.

Chapter Two.

Perhaps it was because her father, an Army surgeon, had uprooted his
family so many times; perhaps it was because she herself, once she was
on her own, had never stayed anywhere long enough to put down roots:
college in Colorado, medical school in Michigan, residency and
fellowship in New York, then two years in Atlanta with the Centers for
Disease Control before returning to New York eight months ago.

Whatever the reasons, Lucy tended to make friends quickly but not
deeply. Now, at the age of thirty-two, she found herself with many
far-flung acquaintances but few close friends. Which had made her
romance with Jean-Pierre all the more precious.

She lay tangled in the sheets, her face stained with tears. Bill Miller
had asked if he could call anyone for her, but who could she call? Kathy
in Hong Kong?

They hadn't spoken in months. Lynn in Seattle? Monica in Atlanta?

She knew how the conversations would go. They'd be horrified, of course,
and then comforting and supportive. But sooner or later, the old
familiar questions would start, gently at first, then more insistent.

Did she really believe she could have been in love with Jean-Pierre,
truly in love with him, after only three weeks together? Hadn't it been
just another of her fast and furious relationships, with great intensity
but no staying power? And she'd begin to wonder whether they were right.
And that would make her pain so much worse. Because only time would have
proven them right or wrong. And time had run out.

She fell into a troubled sleep just before dawn, mind and body
exhausted. She awoke around noon, blinking in the weak November sun that
streamed through the blinds she hadn't bothered to close the night
before.

She felt rotten. She showered, washing away the grime of her trip but
not the bone-deep sadness, then collapsed on the bed again, the tears
starting. Forcing herself to her feet, she wiped her eyes and went and
packed a gym bag. Keeping fit had always been a passion with her, and
she'd found over the years that rote repetition of physical exercise
helped her heal mentally. The end of love affairs often found her in the
gym, banging away on the light bag or doing pushups at a furious pace.

She hurried past the doorman and into the street, her short dark hair
curling around her face. As she turned the corner onto Second Avenue, a
stocky, unkempt man shambled up the street toward her, waving his arms
and muttering to himself. He was clad in multiple layers of shirts and
sweaters topped by an old quilted jacket, and his shaggy, graying hair
was partly covered by a worn blue baseball cap that proclaimed FBI in
dirty yellow letters. As his pale blue eyes focused on Lucy, he smiled
broadly, revealing several missing teeth.

"I know you," he said, looming over her five-footthree-inch frame. He
held out a paper cup containing.

several coins and shook it at her. "You're the doc, right?" He beamed at
her with the childlike candor of the mentally challenged.

"That's right. I'm the doc." Lucy had never been able to decide whether
the man was truly deficient, or if his medication was responsible for
his mental state.

Either way, she had come to consider Ray her special charge. "How're you
doing, Ray?"

"Good. I'm real good." He frowned. "You went away, huh?"

"I was working in Peru. Now I'm back."

Ray nodded emphatically. "I been workin' too," he proclaimed.

"Really? That's terrific." Lucy's face lit up. For months she'd been
trying to convince Ray to seek help from one of the many organizations
and missions that catered to the city's homeless population. The best
she'd been able to do had been to get him to accept the address and
phone number of a group the hospital had recommended. "So where are you
working?"

"Yeah, gonna start next week, prob'ly," Ray told her. "Gonna get me a
real good job."

Lucy's smile faded. "Did you talk to the people I told you about?"

she asked. "Did you call that phone number?"

Ray looked blank. "Phone number?"

"I wrote it out for you before I went away.. ..

Never mind, I'll write it again."

"Oh, that phone number. Gonna call them tomorrow, I surely am.

Meanwhile, I could use a little help, doc, get me something to eat.

.

.." He extended the paper cup and shook it at her.

Lucy sighed. "Sure, Ray." She dug in her jeans pockets and came up with
a quarter. "That's all I have with me," she apologized as she dropped it
in. Ray scowled at her. "My wallet's at home. I'll catch you later, I
promise."

Ray stared at the quarter with deep disgust. Then, with an angry
gesture, he shuffled off down the street, muttering and cursing. Lucy
watched him go. She'd been told it was wrong to give money to homeless
people, that it just prevented them from seeking longterm help at
centers that could offer rehabilitation and work. But Crazy Ray, as he
was known in the neighborhood, obviously refused to consider himself a
candidate for such places. Besides, she'd seen him in line at the
Mcdonald's up the street, and knowing that at least some of the money he
collected actually went for food made her feel better about giving him a
dollar or two whenever he approached her. Over the past eight months,
these relatively munificent contributions had produced a doglike
devotion at such times when Ray actually recognized her, and even the
occasional semi-lucid conversation.

There were other homeless people who haunted Lucy's neighborhood: a
ragged young woman with a large, dirty bandage on her neck, a man in
dreadlocks who seemed permanently attached to a supermarket cart in
which he collected empty deposit bottles from the trash. Lucy dropped
coins into their outstretched hands from time to time, but she took a
special interest in Crazy Ray. Several people had complained to the
local police about the panhandlers, especially when Ray forgot to take
his medicine and became agitated. There had even been talk of forcibly
removing him from the streets. But as long as he was still around, Lucy
would keep putting money in his cup.

The truth was, there wasn't anything else he would allow people to do
for him.

She continued down the street, thoughts of Crazy Ray overshadowed by
images of Jean-Pierre. His talent as a lover. His skill as a doctor.

His love of beautiful things. Jean-Pierre a drug runner? It simply
didn't make sense. Despite what Monica and Kathy and Lynn would say,
Lucy believed she'd come to know Jean well enough, even after only three
weeks, to be certain of that much. So what should she do? What could she
do? she wondered as she pushed through the gym door and headed for the
locker room. I can try and prove it, she decided grimly. Changing
direction, she hurried toward the pay phones.

Bill Miller, known to his staff as Doctor Bill, leaned around the open
door to his office. "Alicia? Lucy Nash is on her way," he told his
secretary. "I want to see her as soon as she gets here."

"But you've got Dr. Wolff--"

"Yes, I know. See if you can catch him and ask if he'd mind postponing
our meeting until tomorrow."

"I'll try," Alicia said doubtfully, "but he's probably already left."

"Well, let's give it a shot. Unless you want the job of entertaining him
out here for twenty minutes." His grin, wide and infectious, made him
seem younger than his fifty-one years. He tended to grin a lot.

"Not me," Alicia told him firmly. Though a major supporter of the IMA,
the bad-tempered Dr. Wolff was not popular with the staff.

"Then dial," Bill said, laughing. "Dial! Dial!"

Alicia laughed too, and reached for the phone, and Bill returned to his
desk, his smile fading. What the hell had Dither been involved in? he
asked himself for the hundredth time. He sat down, put his hands behind
his head and leaned back in his chair. His expensive dark blue blazer
was slung casually over the back, and as usual he was tie-less, although
he kept a small, expensive selection in his bottom drawer for meetings
with people to whom such things were important. Despite his wealth, he
liked to present himself as a man of the people. He glanced around the
paneled office high above Park Avenue, his gray eyes taking in the
framed articles heralding the IMA's many heroic missions, then moving on
to the coffee table where a selection of newspapers, not all of them
tabloids, were having a field day with the drug arrest and suicide of an
IMA volunteer. He sighed deeply.

What a frigging mess.

The IMA was Bill Miller's baby. He'd given up the hands-on practice of
medicine some six years earlier to found the organization, and now
devoted himself to its management and support, spending much of his time
in fund-raising and medical recruitment activities.

He kept in contact with the medical community through consulting work,
and had been delighted, on meeting Lucy Nash at a medical conference, to
find her interested in volunteering with the IMA. She was just the sort
of person he was looking for: smart, professional, and idealistic.

Her youth and physical fitness were also plusses; conditions in the
field were usually very difficult. Her training had made her the perfect
person to deal with the viral outbreak in Peru and, by all accounts,
she'd done the job with skill and sensitivity.

He'd been looking forward to sending her on other missions, perhaps
eventually offering her a staff position.

And then this had to happen.

He stood and paced the polished parquet floor, stopping at a narrow side
table to pour himself some coffee. The news had hit everyone hard, but
Lucy so much harder because of her personal relationship with
Jean-Pierre. He was glad Lucy had called and asked to talk with him; if
she hadn't, he would have waited a day and called her. He was anxious to
learn how she felt about the IMA and its mission now. It was bad enough
losing Jean-Pierre; he hoped they wouldn't have to lose Lucy, too.

"I caught Dr. Wolff just as he was leaving." Alicia appeared in the open
doorway, interrupting his musings. "He wasn't very happy."

"He's never very happy." Bill gave her a small smile. "But he's always
very generous."

"And Dr. Nash is here."

"Good." He rose quickly and stepped around his desk as Lucy came through
the door. She wore tailored tweed slacks and an aqua sweater, and
carried a leather bomber jacket. She looked pale but determined.

"What can I say?" he murmured as he led her to the leather sofa and
seated himself in an upholstered wing chair across from her. "Such a
terrible thing to happen. A real shock to us all."

"I still can't quite believe it," Lucy replied, slinging her jacket onto
the sofa beside her.

"We all feel the same. Can I get you some coffee?

Something stronger?"

"No, thanks. The thing is ... Bill, it's not just that I can't believe
it. I don't believe it."

"I'm afraid it's true all the same," he said gently.

"The heroin was there."

"That's not what I mean. I can't believe Jean knew it was there."

"I'd like to think that, too," Bill told her sadly. "But if he really
had no knowledge of the drugs, why would he commit suicide? If he were
innocent, surely he'd want to clear his name."

Lucy was silent. Bill was right: Jean's suicide did seem like an
admission of guilt. And yet .. . "I'm not going to let it rest," she
told him firmly.

"How do you mean?" He frowned.

"I mean I want to get to the bottom of this, try and clear his name.

Will you help me?"

"Of course, of course. But .. . what are you planning to do?"

"I don't know yet. Talk to someone at the Drug Enforcement Agency, and
maybe some of his friends, colleagues.. .." She paused. "How long has
Jack Mcnulty worked for the IMA?"

"Mcnulty?" Bill frowned. "Why do you ask?"

"He met us at the Mayaruna Airport. He put Jean's bags on the flight to
Lima."

"And you think he may have slipped the heroin into the bag?" The idea
seemed to amuse Bill. "Highly unlikely," he told her firmly. "Jack's
worked for us for years."

"So did Jean."

Bill shook his head. "No, I know Jack Mcnulty. I knew his father, too,
when he worked at Langley.

There's no way he'd be involved in anything like that.

Besides, the DEA people think the drugs were put on board at Lima."

"How can they know that?" Lucy asked.

"The difference in the weight of the bags. All baggage was weighed in at
Mayaruna because of the size of the plane and the weather conditions.
The DEA weighed them again in New York, once they found the drugs."

"He could have put something else in his bag in Lima."

"Something weighing exactly six kilos?" He smiled sadly.

"Unlikely."

Lucy thought of Jean's anxiety over possibly missing his meeting with
Jorge in Lima. It all fit so neatly, but it still didn't ring true to
her. "Has anyone told his family?" she asked at last.

Bill nodded. "I called his mother as soon as I heard.

The IMA will arrange to have his body flown to France for burial--I'm
sorry," he added as he saw her expression. "And someone will have to
sort out his belongings."

"Will you give me Mrs. Dither's phone number? I'd like to call her."

"She doesn't speak English."

"That's okay, I have a little French, enough to say what I want to say."

"I understand. Alicia will get you the number." He leaned toward her
earnestly. "Clearing Jeanpierre's name would be wonderful, of course.

This whole business is causing terrible problems for us in the press,
and with our fund-raising efforts. But what can we really do? The only
person who knew the truth is dead. And if he really was involved in
drugs--I don't want to believe it either, but it does seem
likely-wouldn't it be kinder to let the truth die with him?

Wouldn't it be better to move on?"

But Lucy shook her head. "I can't. I have to know."

Bill sighed. "Well, I'll support you, of course.

But .. ." He paused, his brow furrowing. "Have you thought about the
risk you're taking?"

"Risk?"

"Think about it. If Jean-Pierre was involved in drug running, even
peripherally, and you start asking questions  ..."

Lucy smiled. "Aren't you being a little melodramatic?"

"We're talking heroin, Lucy. Organized crime, Cali cartels .. ." He
watched her smile fade. "Better to let it rest." But she shook her head.
"Well, it's your decision.

But keep me in the loop, okay? Sure you won't have some coffee?" He rose
and refilled his cup.

"When are you due back at the hospital?"

"A week from next Monday. I took a six-week leave. But I'm thinking of
going back sooner. Better to keep myself busy just now."

"Good idea. You did strong work in Peru," he told her, returning to his
chair.

"Thanks. There's a lot more to be done, of course."

"And your friends at the CDC will do it." He paused. "I hope this
terrible business hasn't soured you on the IMA. We really value your
contributions.

We need you."

Lucy smiled. "Now that I've seen it all firsthand, I'm even more
committed. What you do is so important."

"I'm glad to hear it."

She reached for her jacket, then hesitated. "Bill.. .

you don't really believe he did it, do you?"

Bill leaned over and touched her hand. "I don't know what to think," he
said gently. "But then, I wasn't in love with him." He removed his hand
and stood up. "Let me get you that phone number."

The managing agent was waiting for her in the elegant lobby. Yes, he'd
received the authorization from Madame Dither to admit her to Mr.
Dither's apartment.

Some suitcases had just been delivered. Did she want them brought up?

The porter would see to it.

Here was the key to 34G; would she kindly return it to the doorman when
she left?

An exhausting day and a half had passed since Lucy's conversation with
Bill Miller. She'd had two emotionally and linguistically difficult
phone conversations with Jean-Pierre's mother in Paris, offering her
sympathy, explaining her relationship with her son, reiterating her
determination to clear his name, and suggesting she go through his
things and arrange for an international moving company to pack up and
ship to F rance anything of value. Lucy was an expert at moving.

Talking to the Drug Enforcement Agency had been worse. Despite a call
from Doctor Bill, they had not been anxious to speak with her, telling
her mostly what she already knew. As to how, despite a strip search,
Jean-Pierre had managed to conceal a "death pill" with which he'd
committed suicide, they refused to comment, and they obviously thought
the "why" was self-explanatory. The one victory she'd wrung from them
was a promise to return his luggage when they'd finished with it.

Apparently, they'd done so.

Now, feeling a little spooked, she turned the key and stepped into
Jean-Pierre's apartment. A grand piano dominated the living room.

Beyond, a wall of windows looked out at a sea of rooftops and a cloudy
sky. The walls were painted the lightest of creams, and a Chinese carpet
in blues, whites, and pinks covered much of the pale wood floor.

The artwork was eclectic, a mix of the best of many periods and hands,
including several African masks and a small stone figure that, to her
unschooled eye, looked pre-Columbian. She wandered through the
apartment, orienting herself, trying to decide where to start. The
bedroom faced out over town house gardens, its walls painted a dove
gray. Grayand-blue-striped bed linen covered the king-size bed, and
matching drapes were tied back with gray velvet ropes. An old-fashioned
rolltop desk stood along one wall, its top closed.

The entire apartment was almost obsessively tidy.

Not a glass sat in the sink of the bright small kitchen waiting to be
washed; every towel in the spotless bathroom was carefully folded and
hung at the same length. She thought of her own rather haphazard
housekeeping and decided she and Jean would have driven each other
crazy.

She went back into the living room and sank into a chair. She'd offered
to pack up his things because it would give her an opportunity to snoop.
But what, exactly, was she hoping to find? His innocence would be proved
not by the presence of evidence, but by the absence of it.

The arrival of the suitcases interrupted her musings.

As the door closed behind the porter, she began emptying their contents
onto the floor. Clothes ... medical equipment .. . books .. .

toiletries .. . Everything was jumbled and creased, and in some cases,
ripped apart, and the bottoms and sides of the cases had been slashed
open. Jean had told her there was something for her in his luggage, but
she didn't really expect to find it. The DEA would have removed and
retained anything that seemed the least bit significant.

So it was with some surprise that, at the bottom of the second case, she
came upon two ugly wooden figures, sawn in half by the DEA in their
search for drugs. She was certain they hadn't been used to secrete
drugs. If they had, the DEA would have kept them.

Remembering her conversation with Bill Miller, she hefted the hollow
pieces of wood hopefully. No, there was no way they weighed six kilos.

She set them on the coffee table, balancing the upper sections on the
lower ones, and studied them. Could these tacky-looking figures be what
Jean-Pierre had been referring to when they'd parted? One was of a man,
the other of a woman, both with exaggerated sex characteristics.

They certainly didn't look as though they had any value, she thought.

Or was that simply because this sort of thing had never been to her
taste? No, she decided, they definitely looked like cheap, mass-produced
imitations of the sort of thing she'd seen in the windows of galleries
specializing in primitive art. The carving was crude, the figures
charmless. Why would a man with Jean's exquisite taste, with his keen
appreciation of genuine artifacts, have such things in his possession?

She turned back to the suitcases and emptied the last of the clothes
onto the floor, then stuffed everything back in the cases again. Any
undamaged clothing could be donated to the thrift shop, the rest thrown
away. She and Madame Dither had agreed that only the good furnishings
and art should be shipped to Paris. The rest could be sold or given to
charity. She set the statues on top of the cases; the thrift shop could
have them, too, if they cared to glue them back together.

Now what? The rolltop desk, she decided. She went into the bedroom.

Outside, the clouds were thickening.

She switched on the track lighting and went to the desk. The slatted
wooden cover seemed jammed, and she worked it back and forth trying to
free it.

Suddenly it released and rattled open, and she gasped.

The space beneath was crammed with paper, all in a hodgepodge of
disarray. Pages had been torn from a diary, letters and papers pulled
from cubbyholes, the desk blotter slit into ribbons. The desk drawers
revealed the same sort of mess, including a bankbook and two Merrill
Lynch CMA statements, all with impressive balances. Obviously this chaos
was not Jean's doing. Could it be the work of the DEA searchers?

But they'd been so neat elsewhere in the apartment.

She went to the intercom and buzzed down to the lobby.

"This is Carlos," the doorman answered.

"This is Dr. Nash in 34G. Who's been in Dr. Dither's apartment?"

"No one except yourself, miss."

"Are you sure?"

Yes. No one has been in the apartment except for the two times the
government men came."

"Two times? When?"

"You want to know exactly? I have to check the book." Lucy could hear
the rustling of pages. "A man came from the drug agency on Tuesday
night, just as I was going off duty." The night Jean-Pierre died.

"And then two men came back the next afternoon."

"Did they show you any papers?" Lucy asked. "A search warrant?"

"Not the first time, no. The man just said he was with the Drug
Enforcement Agency. He showed me his ID, so I gave him the key."

"How about the men who came back on Wednesday?" Lucy asked. "Did they
show you a search warrant?"

"Yes, miss."

"And you didn't think it was strange that one of their people had been
here the night before?"

"He said he was from the government," Carlos replied defensively. "He
showed me his ID."

"And was he one of the men who came back the next day?"

"No, those were different men. They were black.

The first drug agent was white."

Drug agent, my ass, Lucy thought. The DEA had told her they'd searched
Jean-Pierre's apartment the day after his suicide and found nothing
incriminating; there'd been no mention of an earlier visit. Besides, the
real DEA searchers had obviously taken pains to leave the apartment as
they found it, so the desk must have been trashed before they arrived
with their warrant on Wednesday afternoon. She wondered if the
impostor's search had been successful. "Never mind," she told the
doorman. "It's all right."

She went back into the bedroom and surveyed the chaos on the desk, then
angrily pulled the cover into place again. If anything of significance
had been there, it was obviously gone now. She found a Yellow Pages in a
bedside table and began calling thrift shops.

Half an hour later, all arrangements made, she emerged from the
apartment and rang for the elevator.

It arrived and she stepped inside, but as the door began to close, she
suddenly shoved it open again and stepped back out. Returning to the
apartment, she found a white plastic trash bag in one of the kitchen
cabinets. She retrieved the wooden statues from the suitcase, jammed
them inside, and tied the bag closed.

Ugly they certainly were, but if Jean-Pierre had really intended them as
a gift for her, they might not be as valueless as they seemed. Only an
expert could tell her. Besides, they were all she had left of him.

She left the apartment again, locking the door carefully behind her, and
took the elevator to the lobby.

"He showed his identification," Carlos insisted earnestly as she handed
him the key. "I hope there is no problem."

"No problem," she assured him. Sure.

The doorman looked relieved. "And you are all finished up there?"

"No. I'll be back next week," Lucy told him, "to meet the thrift shop
people and the movers." She paused. "What did he look like?"

"The men from the government?"

"Just the first one, the one that came on Tuesday night."

Carlos frowned, trying to remember. "He was in a suit," he said at last.

"Was he young?" Lucy asked. "Old? Tall? Short?

What color was his hair?"

"Brown, I think. Brown or black. And not too tall."

"How tall?"

"Taller than you, shorter than me." The doorman was about six feet tall.

"How old was he?"

Carlos shrugged. "Probably younger than me. I'm forty-one."

"You've got a good memory," Lucy told him.

He smiled. "Comes with the job," he said. "I have to recognize all the
tenants and call them by their names if I want good tips at Christmas."

The clouds were spewing forth a hard, cold rain as Lucy exited the
building. "Damn," she said aloud. She considered going back upstairs and
borrowing an umbrella from Jean-Pierre's apartment. Never mind, she told
herself; a little rain won't hurt you. There was a bus shelter on the
corner and she ran for it, clutching the plastic trash bag to her chest.
A dark-haired man of medium height leaned out from a recessed doorway
and watched her.

Chapter Three.

It felt strange to be back at work after her four weeks in the jungle.
New York General seemed more imposing, the halls more crowded than she
remembered.

She showed her ID to the guard, then entered the staff elevator and hit
the button for the seventh floor, home of the epidemiological research
lab.

Several staff members greeted her as she went along the hallway to her
office, raincoat and umbrella dripping.

The showers that had begun on Friday evening had continued right through
the weekend, and the clearing skies promised for the beginning of the
work week had so far not materialized.

She hung her wet things on a hook behind the door, then drew from her
large handbag the two crude wooden statues she'd retrieved from
Jean-Pierre's luggage.

She'd managed a fairly neat job of glueing, and they now stood whole and
triumphant in their ugliness.

She set them on the windowsill--the rain coursing down the glass made a
fitting backdrop, she decided--and turned her attention to her cluttered
desk. She hadn't been at it for more than ten minutes when a voice
interrupted.

"I heard you were back. How'd it go?"

Lucy looked up from the pile of pink message slips that had accumulated
during her absence. Jake Weiss, chief of the epidemiology department,
stood in the doorway. In his arms were a stack of patient charts.

"Tell me those aren't for me," she begged.

"Only one. I need a consult. So how was it?"

"Tough. And scary. And fascinating. We found the first filovirus outside
Africa."

"A filo? No shit." He settled himself on a corner of her desk. "Any
ideas about the host?"

"Nothing conclusive, but I have a gut feeling it's some kind of bird.

Someone will need to go back, do a lot more studies."

"You?"

Lucy shrugged. "I've got plenty to do right here at the moment."

"You've got that right." He smiled at her. "So you did your usual superb
job, you finished early, and you came straight back here to me," he
teased.

"I couldn't stay away." Lucy smiled back.

"I have that effect on people." A burly bear of a man some twenty years
her senior, Jake Weiss had a reputation for brilliance that terrified
the residents who rotated onto his service. But Lucy had found him both
generous and amusing, and the two had quickly developed an easy,
collegial relationship.

"I see you brought me a present." He gestured at the two crude statues
on the windowsill. "You shouldn't have. And I do mean that."

She grinned. "Awful, aren't they? They were given to me by ... a
friend." Her smile faded. "Jake, you know anything about art?"

"Art who?"

"Seriously, do you think these things are authentic?"

Weiss dumped the charts on her desk, then reached over and picked up the
female figure. "Authentic kitsch, maybe. Hell, I don't know anything
about this stuff. Why not ask the friend who gave them to you?"

"I wish I could."

Weiss studied her. "That Dither guy, right? The doctor who was arrested
for drug running?" Lucy nodded.

"I saw it on the news." He hesitated. "You want to talk about it?"

"Not really, Jake. Not right now."

"Okay," Weiss said easily. He turned the statue around in his hands.

"Looks like this thing's been broken apart and glued back together.

You do that?"

"The second part, not the first." He raised an eyebrow, but Lucy was
silent.

He reached for the male figure and held them together.

"Cute couple. You planning on breeding them?"

Lucy gave him a small smile. "Actually, I thought maybe Joe Can- in
Radiology might be able to tell me about them. Isn't his wife involved
in some gallery in Soho?"

Weiss looked doubtful. "I think they do modern stuff, but you could
ask." He replaced the statues on the windowsill. "You look tired," he
told her.

"Nice of you to mention it."

"Maybe you should take a couple more days.. .."

"I need to work, Jake. Work and working out are the best therapies I
know. Now, which one of these cases is for me?"

He'd been sitting in the parked car for several hours, scanning the
street, when he saw the nannies returning with their strollers. The rain
had stopped.

around midday, though the afternoon remained cloudy, and the two women
had essayed a quick trip to the park. As they approached the large,
multistory apartment building, a grocery delivery man arrived and began
unpacking bags from his wheeled cart and carrying them into the lobby.

Deciding the setup was as good as he was likely to get, he got out and
headed up the street, intercepting the two women just as they got to the
canopy. "You work for the Boyds in 12B, don't you?" he asked the younger
of the two as he opened the heavy outer door for them. "I'm in 12G."

He gave a reassuring wave to the doorman, who was attempting to make the
delivery man understand that the groceries had to be taken around to the
service entrance.

"No." The woman frowned. "I work for the Leesons."

"Sorry. I guess you look like her." The charming young man in the suit
and tie smiled down at the stroller's occupant. "He's cute." He leaned
down and waggled the fingers of his right hand at the baby as they
entered the lobby. "How ya doin', fella?" The baby gurgled. "My wife and
I are expecting in the spring," he announced, straightening up and
keeping his left hand out of sight. His longish brown hair had fallen
over his forehead, and he flicked it back with a boyish gesture.

"We're looking for someone to help out. Either of you know someone who
could work for us?" Both women smiled at him, the older one started to
reply, and the harried doorman, now busy with the intercom, barely
glanced at the friendly little group as it moved past him toward the
elevators.

The man got off at twelve and walked down to seven, found he was in the
wrong wing, rode down to the lobby, and took another elevator up again.

The seventh floor corridor was empty, and his keys made short work of
the two guaranteed-unpickable locks.

He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and looked around. He was
standing in a typical high-rise layout: a short, narrow hallway with
closets on one side and a kitchen on the other, beyond it a rectangular
living room with dining area, then another short hallway to bedroom and
bath. He decided to start in the living room.

The room was comfortable but not lavish: a sofa and matching loveseat
upholstered in yellow paisley, a glass dining table, and several pieces
of old pine. The built-in bookcase along one wall contained a broad
assortment of reading matter: novels, biographies, medical texts,
cookbooks. An old pine table with a center drawer that served as a desk
revealed nothing untoward. He was neater with its contents than he'd
been at Dither's, knowing its owner would be back.

He then turned his attention to a low pine chest along one wall.

Carefully placing various objets d'art on the floor, he opened the
chest, but found only blankets.

He pulled books from the shelves and looked behind them, ruffled through
pages to make sure they were books and not hollowed-out containers, then
placed them back. He lifted the area rug, peered behind pictures and
mirrors, felt under tables.

The bedroom was done in shades of peach and green, with peach balloon
curtains. The bed was rumpled, its green print duvet pulled roughly up
over the matching sheet and pillows. He checked under the mattress and
inside each pillow case, then pulled the duvet up again in a close
approximation of its original position.

The closets contained nothing of interest to him either, though he went
through each one carefully, removing and inspecting every shoe, every
sweater box.

Back in the front hallway, he explored the linen and coat closets, then
turned his attention to the kitchen.

Working quickly, he checked the interior of each cabinet in turn,
feeling inside the pots and bowls, looking behind the china and inside
the freezer. He shook rice and spaghetti boxes to make sure their
contents were as described, hefted cans, peered inside the trash bin.

The bathroom was easier but no more rewarding.

Damn, he thought, as he lifted the top from the toilet tank and stared
glumly inside. What the hell had she carried away from Dither's
apartment last Friday in that plastic bag, and what had she done with
it?

Dusk was falling as they pulled away from the Salva Regina Mission on
Eighth Avenue. As Doctor Bill was always quick to explain to IMA
contributors, his car and driver weren't the luxury they seemed. If he
had to depend on public transportation, or take his personal car in and
out of parking garages all day, he'd never get through his rounds.

When Bill Miller had given up his lucrative medical practice, he hadn't
given up practicing medicine. Charity work, he liked to say, was as
rewarding as a Park Avenue office. It was just that the rewards were
emotional rather than financial.

Of course he could afford the luxury of being paid in gratitude rather
than dollars. A wealthy man in his own right, he'd amassed a tidy
fortune during his years of private practice and invested it wisely.

Now he was as familiar a figure at missions and shelters around town as
he was at charity balls, advising and diagnosing, doctoring wounds and
illnesses that weren't serious enough to bother the local hospitals
about, and providing free inoculations during flu and measles epidemics.

He checked his watch: nearly five. Not too bad. A quick stop at the
Homeless Coalition to drop off the samples of antibiotic cream he'd
promised, then downtown.

There was plenty of time; his reservation at Bouley wasn't until eight.

But traffic around the Lincoln Tunnel area was unusually slow, and they
didn't pull up outside the five-story brick mission building until
six-thirty. It was dark now, and the light mounted high above the
doorway painted the deserted pavement below. This seedy,
light-industrial section near the docks had not been gentrified, and
streetlights as well as passersby were few and far between.

Sister Margareta, and the smells of franks and beans and disinfectant,
greeted him as he entered. "Busy tonight," he offered as she led him
past the line of homeless people waiting to be fed.

"We're always busy when it is cold and wet," the nursing sister replied
with a heavy Dutch accent. A severe, columnar woman of sixty-four.

Sister Margareta had recently emigrated to New York to take over the
running of the mission, which she did with great firmness and greater
compassion. Bill had taken to her the first time he'd met her, and her
medical training, combined with her independent, no-nonsense attitude,
had caused him to make this mission one of his regular stops.

"What have you got for me?" he asked as they continued along the green
linoleum'd hallway toward the infirmary.

"The usual. Coughs. Colds. One case of flu. A few scrapes and scratches.
And that poor woman with the neck sore has pulled off the bandage again.
It looks badly infected."

Bill dealt with the neck sore first, cleaning, medicating, and
rebandaging it, then giving the woman some antibiotic pills. "Now you
take them. Don't throw them away," he told the woman firmly, but he knew
the chances of his instructions being followed were no better than
fifty-fifty. The scratches and scrapes were minor and quickly doctored,
but the coughs and winter colds were less treatable. He dispensed the
cough drops and vitamin C pills with a sense of futility.

The mission had only limited overnight space--twenty-two beds--and a
three-night limit. And it was no good telling people who lived in
cardboard boxes on heating ducts to keep warm and drink lots of fluids.

Victims of flu, measles, and other more serious sicknesses were kept in
the mission infirmary that lay just beyond the examination room, but
colds and coughs would quickly overrun the tiny five-bed unit, and had
to be turned away.

The patients shuffled out into the hallway, and Bill and the nursing
sister turned their attention to the patient suffering from what
Margareta had diagnosed as flu. A thin black man in his mid-twenties, he
had been wrapped in several blankets in an effort to control his chills,
and settled in a threadbare reclining chair behind a screen.

"Bill, isn't it?" the doctor asked kindly. "An easy name for me to
remember." He put a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. "How long have
you been feeling sick?"

"Since yesterday," the man said softly. His eyes were jumpy and afraid.

Bill examined him carefully, frowning as he put his stethoscope to the
man's chest, then turned to Margareta.

"Have any other of your regulars shown up with these symptoms?"

"No."

"Any of your staff sick?" The nurse shook her head. "I'd like him to
have a chest X ray."

"I could have someone take him to Bellevue--" Margareta suggested.

"Not Bellevue." The young man levered himself out of the chair, blankets
falling around him. "Not going to Bellevue. They lock you up in
Bellevue. You never come out."

"No, no," Bill tried to reassure him. "That's not what she means."

"I'm getting' out of here," the man announced, tottering toward the
infirmary door. Bill reached out a hand to stop him, but he shrugged
free. He got as far as the doorway before he stopped and stood swaying,
eyes hot.

"I suppose we might take him to Dr. Jensen's office on West Seventieth,"
Bill mused. "He's one of our volunteers and I'm sure he'd do us the
favor. It would be easier for this guy."

"Not going to Bellevue .. ." The man hesitated, weaving.

Margareta went and draped a blanket around him, but when she tried to
lead him back to the recliner, he resisted. "Not Bellevue," she assured
him. "You have my word."

"I could have someone pick him up, bring him back here," Bill said.

"Let me make a call."

"What do you think he has?" Margareta asked softly, drawing the doctor
aside.

"I'm not sure. But it could be TB."

"That would be bad. Especially in a place like this."

"Yes, very bad."

"What're you two whispering about?" the young man asked suspiciously.

"You gonna take me somewhere, lock me up?"

"No one's going to lock you up," Bill told him firmly. Turning back to
Margareta, he asked, "Do you think you could keep him here? At least
until I'm sure of the diagnosis?"

She nodded. "We'll isolate him in the infirmary.

Only three of the beds are occupied at the moment, and we can move those
patients in here after we disinfect."

She glanced back at the young man. "I know the hospitals do what they
can," she continued, "but they are so impersonal. And being sick can be
a frightening experience for anyone."

"It'll mean extra work for you and your staff."

Margareta drew herself up. "We are used to work," she told him sternly.
"Besides, who will care for them if we don't?" She smiled at the young
black man.

"You can stay here. The doctor will take you somewhere for X rays and
bring you back. But you must do exactly what I tell you."

The young man smiled sweetly. "Yes, ma'am," he said. His eyes rolled
back and he collapsed slowly onto the scuffed green floor.

Lucy tossed her jacket and oversize handbag onto a chair. Carr's wife's
gallery did indeed specialize in modern art, and neither Joe nor his
wife, whom he was kind enough to call, could offer a valuation of the
statues, although she noticed the radiologist wince when he saw them.
She stood the figures on the pine chest, then continued on to the
kitchen where she poured herself some wine from an open bottle in the
fridge and thought about food. Vietnamese, she decided.

She wasn't in the mood to cook, but there was a good local place that
delivered.

Back in the living room, she ordered red curry chicken in lemon grass
and coconut milk, then checked her answering machine. Monica's voice
boomed out, reminding her that she and Howard were expecting her next
Wednesday evening, along with her famous duck recipe, and asking how the
hell she was, anyway? Lucy smiled. Monica was a research scientist at
the CDC and the two women had become friends during Lucy's stint there.
The second message was from the international shippers she'd contacted,
confirming the dates of the New York pickup--next Tuesday, at his
apartment--and the Paris delivery of Jeanpierre's things.

She went to the bookshelves and scanned her cookbook section. An
enthusiastic cook when the mood hit her, she'd collected many recipes
over the years. The duck recipe was in a flimsy pamphlet, and tended to
work its way back between the more substantial volumes.

She'd located it and was pulling it out when she stopped, frowning.

What was The Salterton Trilogy doing between 365 Ways to Cook Pasta and
The Food of Greece^ She glanced at the shelf above; Hungarian Cooking
beside Somerset Maugham? Strange; she hadn't read Maugham for months,
nor had she used the Hungarian cookbook. With a mental shrug, she
reshelved the offending volumes in their proper sections and carried
Game Bird Cooking across to the desk, where she copied out the duck
recipe for transport to Atlanta, then put the pamphlet back on the
shelf. She was glad Monica had agreed to ducks for Thanksgiving; turkey
was so boring.

She returned to the desk to call Madame Dither in Paris. It took her a
moment to find the number; apparently she'd left it under her
appointment book on the top of the desk, and not in the drawer as she'd
remembered.

The phone rang for some time before it was answered, and Lucy realized
belatedly that it was eleven in the evening in France.

"Madame Dither? Here is Lucy Nash again." In her phone conversations
with Jean's mother, Lucy was finding her command of French not nearly as
commanding as she'd remembered it.

"Ah, Lucy," the older woman said warmly. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, Madame, thank you. I hope I am not calling too late. I wish
to tell you about the shipping persons."

Jean-Pierre's mother rattled away in rapid French, and Lucy sighed.

While her college French allowed her to communicate, sort of, she didn't
always understand the responses she got back. "Please speak more
slowly," she begged.

"I wish to thank you for your help," Madame Dither said, speaking at a
snail's pace. "What of the shipping?"

"I hear today from the shipper with confirmation ..."

Somewhat laboriously, Lucy managed to explain what was being sent and
when it would arrive, and to supply the name and phone number of the
local French shippingagent. "I give everything else to the charity
people as we agreed," she added. "Yes?"

"Yes. I would not want his clothes," Madame Dither replied, picking up
speed. "It would be too sad.

Again, I must thank you, my dear. Jean's family thanks you for all you
have done."

Don't want clothes, Lucy managed to translate. Too sad. Thank you.

Jean's family.

"We will have a memorial service here in Paris," his mother continued.

"All the family will come.

There are cousins I have not seen for many years. It is a sad reason to
see loved ones."

Memorial service. Paris. All the family. Sad grape .. . Grape?

No, that couldn't be right.. .."And will your sister be well enough to
travel from Marseilles for the memorial?" Lucy asked. "I understand she
is very ill."

A silence greeted this question, and Lucy was beginning to wonder if
she'd really said what she thought she'd said when Madame Dither spoke
at last. "My sister lives in Paris," she said.

"I'm talking," Lucy persevered, "about your sister in Marseilles. The
one who is very ill. Jean was going to visit her this week."

"But ... I have no sister in Marseilles." Madame Dither sounded
perplexed. "You said this before, and I told you. Perhaps you did not
understand. My sister lives in Paris." She paused. "You say Jean was
coming to France this week?"

"My French is not good," Lucy apologized. "I must have misunderstood."

"I think you did- Jean was coming to visit me for Christmas."

He was? "Yes, that must be it. Well, Madame Dither, I mustn't take up
any more of your time. Let me know if there is any problem with the
shipping."

"Yes. And thank you again."

Lucy replaced the receiver and leaned back in her chair. So Jean-Pierre
had lied about having a sick aunt in Marseilles. But why?

The answer, terribly obvious, was not one she wanted to think about.

Marseilles was a major port of entry for drugs.

She rose and went to the window. A half-moon peeked from behind the
departing clouds. The Vietnamese food she'd ordered would arrive any
minute but she was no longer hungry. She went to the kitchen and
refilled her wineglass. Sipping, she returned to the living room and
sank onto the sofa. She'd convinced herself that Jean was innocent, that
someone had planted the heroin in his suitcase. But if that was true,
what was the real reason for his trip to Marseilles?

And why did it require a cover story about a fictitious aunt?

Chapter Four.

"Nothing? Not at his place or hers? Nothing at all?" The older man
sipped his beer and scowled.

"We've been all through this," his companion replied tiredly. Although
their booth, with its patched mock-leather seats and scarred table, was
set well toward the back of the noisy bar, they spoke softly.

"But she did take something from Dither's apartment when she was there
last week."

"Well, I saw her leave with a bag she didn't bring in with her, yeah.

As for what was in the bag  ..."

He shrugged.

"Drugs? Cash?"

"I didn't find any. I didn't find a goddamn thing."

"Maybe you didn't look hard enough."

The dark-haired man rose angrily. "Dammit. You don't believe me, search
the place yourself." Faces turned toward them in anticipation.

This small Irish pub down by the docks did not cater to the most genteel
crowd in town.

"Sit down, Rossetti." Rossetti sat. "So what's her story? Didn't you
learn anything at her place?"

"Yeah, well, she's pretty, she's a lousy housekeeper, and she likes to
cook."

"Oh, that's useful. Look, I want to know what she took from Dither's
place, and I want to know why."

"Hey, maybe she took back a bunch of love letters she wrote him. Maybe
she was reclaiming a couple of books he borrowed."

"And maybe she's the one dealing drugs now. In which case--"

"She's a doctor. Cut her some slack."

"Dither was a doctor, too."

Rossetti sighed. "Yeah, I know." He stood up.

"Look, I gotta go. I'm already late."

"Keep in touch," the older man said.

Rossetti gave him a wry smile. "Like I have a choice."

" ...  and in here," Lucy continued, leading the three packers from
Cartright's International Expediters into Jean-Pierre's bedroom,
"there's just the desk."

"It's a beauty," one of the men commented, inspecting it. The name
stitched on his coveralls identified him as Chad. "It's the real thing;
old. Don't see many of them around." He turned to Lucy. "Any chance you
want to sell it instead of ship it?"

"I'm afraid not," Lucy told him. "It doesn't belong to me."

"Pity," Chad said. "Kind of a hobby with me, Victorian furniture." He
bent and studied the drawer fittings.

"See this? Real brass." He pulled open a drawer. "You empty it all out?"

"Yes, of course," Lucy replied, puzzled. Surely the man could see that
the drawer was empty.

Catching her tone, he looked up at her and winked, "I mean the other
drawers. The secret ones."

"What?"

"All these Victorian rolltops have secret compartments.

Didn't you know that?" Lucy shook her head.

"People hid love letters in them, jewelry .. . here, I'll show you."

He pulled the open drawer completely out of its frame and set it on the
floor, then felt around inside. "There's usually a sort of spring
release .. .

got it." He drew out a small, rectangular wooden compartment, open at
the top. "Empty. Let's try another one." He slid it back in and replaced
the drawer.

"How many are there?" Lucy asked, her eyes wide.

"Oh, a couple. There's usually one behind the small drawers on top."

He rolled the desktop back. "May I?"

"Please," Lucy said. "By all means."

"Come on, man," one of Chad's partners interjected.

"We've got a schedule, you know?"

"Just take a second," Chad replied calmly. He pulled out the small
drawers and felt behind each in turn, stopping at the third from the
left. He manipulated an unseen mechanism and Lucy heard a tiny thunk as
the catch released. "Drawer's sticking." Chad frowned. "I think
something's stuck back there." He looked over at Lucy. "If I pull hard,
I can probably get it out. But I might rip it. Or damage the drawer."

"Go for it," Lucy said. "You have my permission."

Chad's large fingers fumbled and twisted inside the narrow cavity.

"I've got hold of it," he reported at last. "Feels like leather ..

." With a final twist and pull, he brought forth a small leather-bound
diary amid splinters of wood. "Afraid I broke the drawer," he
apologized, handing the book to Lucy.

"No problem," Lucy assured him. Her pulse quickened as she leafed
through the maroon diary. The first page was blank; the second, covered
in cryptic symbols and abbreviations, was in Jean-Pierre's handwriting.

"I can't thank you enough," she began.

"Sorry it wasn't, like, jewels," Chad told her, but Lucy shook her head.

"Don't be. This is better."

While the three men padded and crated Jeanpierre's belongings, Lucy sat
on the floor in the emptying living room and puzzled over the contents
of the diary. There were letters and dates, and symbols she couldn't
interpret, and names--Vieillesse, Sun God, Stanislas, Noone--with sums
of money next to them, some rather large. She was pretty sure that
Vieillesse was French for old age, which made no sense to her.

But Sun God sounded like it could be the street name of a drug of some
sort. And Stanislas and Noone could be buyers. One name that appeared
several times was Jorge M and as she recalled Jean's anxiety about
missing Jorge in Lima, she wondered whether he might have been Jean's
South American drug connection.

Suddenly aware of where her thoughts were taking her, she snapped the
book closed. Jean couldn't be a drug dealer..There had to be another
explanation for the words and phrases. And the large sums of money?

Yes, she told herself fiercely, there could.

"All done." Chad stood before her. "If you'd just sign here, please."

Lucy rose, slipping the diary into her jeans pocket.

"Thanks again for showing me those secret drawers," she said as she
signed the shipping release. "Uh, wait a sec." She retrieved her handbag
and pulled a twenty from her wallet. "Please take this," she told Chad.

"I'm really grateful."

"My pleasure," he assured her, pocketing the money. "Like I said, I love
those old desks."

When the shipping people had left, Lucy took a last look around. The
apartment felt cold and sad and empty. Jean was truly gone. With an air
of finality, she went out and locked the door behind her.

But as she walked home through the darkening streets, she felt no
closure. Nor would she, she knew, until she had cleared Jean's name of
the drug charges.

Or confirmed them, an inner voice whispered.

As she turned onto Second Avenue, she reached into her purse for a few
dollars to give Crazy Ray, but surprisingly he wasn't at his usual
evening spot in front of the video store, nor was he stationed outside
Mcdonald's, opening the door for customers and waving his cup in their
faces. Well, she'd catch up with him in the morning.

The phone was ringing as she unlocked her door, and she ran for it,
grabbing it just before the answering machine cut in.

"Lucy? Monica. Just wanted to double-check when your flight gets in
tomorrow. Howard says three twenty-five, but I thought you were coming
in earlier.. .."

"Howard's right. I tried to switch to the ten o'clock, but it was sold
out."

"Then three twenty-five it is. We'll meet you at the baggage claim.

Sure you'll recognize us after lo these many months?"

"Now don't try and make me feel guilty. It hasn't been that long."

"Only since last May."

Lucy smiled. "Well, you can't have changed all that much."

"I keep getting blonder. Howard just gets balder.

Women age so much differently than men." Lucy laughed. "Oh, and I've got
your ducks. I bought them from a local game farm, and they're real
beauties. And five oranges, like you said. And wild rice. Sure that's
all you need?"

"I'm bringing the spice mix with me, and a bottle of Hennessey.

Whatever I don't pour on the ducks we can drink."

"Good plan." Monica hesitated. "Hey, Luce, you remember Ted Wiley?

Well, he's been working with those peruvia samples you sent. And he's
come up with something kind of interesting."

"Yes?" Lucy lowered herself into her desk chair.

"What?"

"There seems to be a second strain of the virus. It's real, real close
to the original."

"Curious," Lucy said. "We saw only one version of the disease.. .

." She recalled the man with the scars and the fever, the one who'd
cursed them all and disappeared into the jungle. "Although there was a
man who claimed peruvia--he called it sangre negra--was an old disease
that had come back."

"Well, we're just discovering filoviruses. It'll probably turn out there
are thousands of the little buggers.

Anyhow, if you can stay until Monday, Matt might let you have a look at
it."

"You think so?" Matt Kravitz was in charge of the CDC's Level Four
section, and Lucy's old boss.

"If not, you can watch the video feed from the electron microscope.

Can you stay?"

"Five days? Sure you won't get sick of me?"

"Of course not. We never see you anymore. It'll be fun."

Lucy thought for a moment. "Okay, as long as the hospital can spare me,
I'll pack an extra pair of undies and change my flight home."

"Terrific. Oh, and bring some good, sturdy boots.

Howard's plans for Saturday involve mud."

"Uh-oh." They both laughed at Lucy's tone. Howard, a high school
chemistry teacher, was a notorious outdoorsman, and the more
uncomfortable the experience, the better he liked it. "Oh, and Monica?"
Her voice became more serious. "I have something curious to show you.
It's a diary that--well, it's a long story.

I'll tell you about it when I see you."

"Can't wait."

"Me neither."

Atlanta was a popular destination on Thanksgiving eve, and her flight
circled for half an hour before landing.

Lucy hurried through the brightly lit terminal, pushing from her mind
the memory of a small airfield in Peru, and concentrating on ducks and
mud and old friends.

Monica and Howard had stationed themselves by the baggage carousels and
they waved enthusiastically as she appeared, Monica a lot blonder and
Howard only slightly balder. Despite her protests, Howard grabbed her
large green bag as it came around, and talking nonstop, they headed out
into the parking lot to retrieve the couple's Cherokee. In the front
seat, a rather silly looking Corgi barked fiercely at their arrival.

"Don't mind Max," Monica said. "He's all mouth and no trousers."

"New acquisition?"

"Newis/i," Howard replied. "He got us around Halloween."

He opened the door. "Max," he said firmly, "stay!" The small, low-slung
animal immediately leaped out of the car, raced over to snuffle at
Lucy's outstretched hand, marked the left rear tire as his personal
property, galloped around to supervise the loading of her bag, and
jumped into the backseat, claws scrabbling on the upholstery and stubby
tail going a mile a minute.

"You train him yourself?" Lucy asked, all innocence.

"Very funny." Howard slid behind the wheel, then turned and patted the
Corgi's brown head. "Good boy."

"Ah, the Reverse Reinforcement Method," Lucy said, laughing.

"Joke all you want," Howard replied defensively.

"The fact is. Corgis are very smart dogs. And they're great
sheepherders."

"Such an important skill out here in the suburbs," Monica added,
smiling. "Now let me tell you who-all's coming to dinner tomorrow.

.

.."

The four Rhesus monkeys howled and rattled their cages at the arrival of
their Thanksgiving dinner, carried by the man in the yellow jumpsuit. He
put the food on the steel examining table and went over to the cages. No
change. Well, he hadn't expected any.

When he'd examined them thoroughly several hours before, they'd seemed
completely healthy. It had been over a week, after all. If they were
going to succumb, they would have done so by now.

He went from cage to cage, carefully unlatching the small sections that
allowed access to the interior and retrieving the empty food dishes,
then latching them firmly in place again. Although he was anxious to
finish here and go home to his own holiday meal, he worked carefully and
slowly. At the steel table he refilled the dishes, then went back to the
cages and began to feed the animals. Usually the monkeys withdrew when
he put his gloved hand into the cages, repelled by the nearness of the
bright yellow color and the smell of disinfectant. He was placing the
last dish when it happened. Without warning, the Rhesus swung down from
the far side, grabbed the glove, and bit down hard on his thumb.

He dropped the food dish and jumped back, cursing.

His heart was beating wildly, but he had the presence of mind to slam
the cage section back into place and set the latch before examining his
ripped glove. Had the teeth gone all the way through?

Normally he would exit the lab and decontaminate in the airlocked
disinfectant shower before removing gloves or suit. No time for that
now. To one side of the small animal lab was a decon sink. Using the
foot pedal, he started the flow of disinfectant as he stripped off the
heavy glove. Both pairs of the surgical gloves he wore underneath were
punctured. Shit. He ripped them off, thanking God when he saw no blood,
and thrust his bare hand under the flow. He felt no sting, and the skin
of his thumb appeared unbroken.

Slowly his breathing became normal. Hell, he told himself, there's
nothing to worry about. The monkeys aren't infected. But he knew that
wasn't completely accurate. The fact that they weren't sick didn't mean
they weren't infected. Simian hemorrhagic fever was fatal to chimps, but
harmless to humans. The reverse could be true, too.

"So what do you think of him?"

Lucy scraped the remains of a bounteous Thanksgiving dinner from the
last of Monica's pretty Mikasa dishes, then set it in the sink with the
others. The ducks had been a huge success, and only the bones remained.
"What do I think of whom?"

"Charlie. Charlie Moss."

Lucy looked over at her friend. "Oh, no," she said.

"You didn't invite him for me."

"Of course I did. He's perfect for you. And Howard says he's a great
woodsman."

"One of my first requirements in a mate." Lucy turned on the tap and
began rinsing the dishes. "You know how I hate that matchmaker stuff."

"Just give him a chance," Monica begged. She took a rinsed dish and
stood it in the dishwasher. "He's smart and he's cute. And I know he's
looking."

Lucy stopped rinsing and turned to her friend. "I know you mean well,
sweetie, but this isn't a good time for me."

"What do you mean? What's wrong?" Monica's brown eyes filled with
concern.

"I ... got involved with somebody in Peru," Lucy began. "And then a
whole bunch of shit happened ..."

Haltingly, she told Monica about her romance with Jean-Pierre, about his
arrest and death, and about her determination to learn the truth.

Sounds of laughter and barking drifted in from the dining room as she
spoke, making her words seem overly dramatic and unreal.

Monica listened silently. When Lucy was finished, she put an arm around
her shoulder. "I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I had no idea.

Why didn't you tell me before?"

"I was planning to, this weekend," Lucy replied.

"That diary I mentioned on the phone? It was his. It's the only clue I
have, and it seems to say exactly what I don't want to believe."

"I read about it in the papers," Monica said, "but I had no idea..

.

. You really think he's innocent?"

"I did, in the beginning," Lucy replied. "I still want to,but  ..."

"Pumpkin pie and apple strudel, coming up!" Howard called back over his
shoulder as he entered the kitchen. "Lucy, Monica, leave the dishes.
Charlie and I will do them later."

"A veritable prince among men," Monica announced, shutting the
dishwasher firmly. She turned to Lucy. "We'll have a long chat when
everyone's gone home."

"Ah, girl talk." Howard gave Lucy a broad wink.

"That Charlie's really something, isn't he? And a helluva trekker.

You know, one time--" Lucy rolled her eyes and Monica gave her husband a
long-suffering look. "Howard? Go find out if anyone wants ice cream on
their pie."

The day after Thanksgiving brought an early snow to New York City, big
wet flakes that sank heavily through the cold air and flattened
themselves in sodden layers on sidewalks and awnings and roofs. Bill
Miller traditionally spent Thanksgiving in Vermont.

He had several close friends in the Manchester area with whom he ate his
turkey, and his Stratton Mountain condo was right on the liftline.

Bill loved to ski, and he could usually count on a few good runs being
open by the end of November, even if most of the snow was man-made.

But this year, he was too busy to spare more than a few days, and
Thanksgiving Saturday found him back in the city. It had been years
since he'd spent this particular weekend in town, and as he made his
rounds, he marveled at the exodus that had left the streets pleasantly
empty and still.

Sister Margareta hurried to greet him as he entered the mission.

"There is not much improvement," she said without preamble.

"Give it time." He followed her white-coated figure toward the rear of
the building. "Quiet around here," he commented.

"We've eliminated all overnight infirmary stays as you suggested," she
explained. "And the soup kitchen now stops serving at three. We will
resume our regular schedule once this is over, of course." They stopped
at a steel door, obviously new, that proclaimed in large red letters:
quarantine. no admittance.

"I'm glad you got us permission to keep them here," she said.

"It wasn't as difficult as I'd feared," Bill replied.

"My buddy at the Board of Health was very anxious to avoid a panic.

The quieter we can keep it, the happier we'll make him." He turned and
looked at her severely. "But it's absolutely essential that you and your
staff be religious in following the safety procedures."

"Absolutely. We understand."

"And none of the staff or volunteers is sick?"

"No, thank God." She turned aside and opened the door to a small
changing room. "I have laid out your things. Thelma and Pat are already
inside. They'll help you." Margareta paused. "We are all so grateful to
you. Dr. Miller."

He gave her a warm smile. "I'm glad to do what I can. I'm afraid it's
not the last we'll see of antibioticresistant TB," he added, his smile
fading. "And I'm still not totally convinced that hiding them away here
is the right thing to do, even though the commissioner seems to like the
idea ..."

"The hospitals are overcrowded," Margareta said firmly. "Besides, if
word gets out that a few homeless people are carrying
antibiotic-resistant TB, there will be a panic. You said so yourself."

Bill shrugged his agreement. "The shelters and the missions will all be
shut down, and those poor people will be out in the snow."

He nodded slowly. Sister Margareta had made her feelings and intentions
perfectly clear, ever since that young man had collapsed in the
examining room last week. All Bill had done was follow her lead.

"Well, let's just make sure we don't add to the problem," he told her.

"I agree we're probably doing a service by containing the illness here.

And perhaps what we learn will help others. But we must be scrupulous in
our sterilization procedures. And our security."

Inside the changing room, he stripped off his street clothes and hung
them in a locker, then donned the clean green scrubs and fabric booties
Margareta had set out on the bench. Hanging from a padded hook on one
wall was an orange RACAL bodysuit with a self-contained, battery-powered
air supply. A communications microphone and headset were built into its
hood. He struggled into the suit, hating the confined feeling it gave
him. He'd always been slightly claustrophobic.

He took a few experimental breaths; the mechanism seemed to be working
okay. He pulled on the two pairs of surgical gloves Margareta had left
for him and Velcro'd the suit's sleeves tight around the join. Feeling
like an orange version of the Michelin Man, he waddled out into the
hall, took a deep breath, and pushed through the steel door.

He went quickly through the tiny airlocked decontamination chamber that
Carl Anders, head of the IMA lab, had recently installed. Its chemical
shower, with the powerful disinfectant known as Envirochem, would only
be needed on the way out of the ward.

Thelma looked up from the rolling tray stand on which she was laying out
the blood-collection implements--butterfly needles, Vacutainer tubes,
alcohol swabs--and smiled at Bill through the clear faceplate of her
RACAL suit. Thelma was an excellent nurse, and the mission could afford
her services only because of a special contribution made by the IMA.
Pat, a nurse's aide, turned from the patient she was tending and waved.
She, too, was gowned, gloved, and RACAL-suited.

Four beds had been added to the shelter's usual twenty-two, and two rows
of thirteen beds, set at right angles to the walls, now marched the
length of the long narrow room. Men were placed on one side, women on
the other. Thelma rolled the tray to the first bed on the right, and she
and Bill got started. He examined each patient in turn, Thelma making
notes and drawing blood samples. Occasionally Bill asked for certain
Vacutainers to be used; the colored tops indicated the specific tests to
be done on the blood inside.

"They're still pretty lethargic," Thelma told him as they worked, her
voice thin and muffled in his headset.

"That's normal," he assured her. "Actually, they're in better shape than
I expected. Are the coughs still productive?"

"Some yes, some no. The fever and sweats were pretty bad in the
beginning, but they seem to be over the worst." She hesitated. "I've
noticed a sort of rash, though. A number of them have it."

Bill frowned. "Show me." Thelma led him to the bed of a plump-faced,
middle-aged woman with graying hair.

"Doctor wants to look at that rash," Thelma told the dozing patient as
she gently pulled back the hospital gown. The woman opened her
red-rimmed eyes in sudden alarm, but Bill smiled at her reassuringly and
patted her hand as he bent to examine the small dark welts. "Yes, I've
seen these lesions before," he told Thelma. "A form of subacute
hematogenous TB. It's a not uncommon complication with these
antibioticresistant strains, especially in the reactivation of old TB
cases." The nurse nodded and they moved on to the next patient.

It was nearly eight when they finished and Thelma began packing up the
vials of blood for decontamination and collection.

"The improvement's small but it's steady," Bill told the two women. "I
think we're going to beat this thing. You both doing okay with the
RACALS?"

Across the room, Pat gave him a thumbs up, but Thelma shrugged. "They
get in the way," she said.

"Are you sure we need them? Wouldn't a jumpsuit and mask and gloves--"

"The RACALS may be a little overkill," Bill replied, "but we're talking
about an airborne, bloodborne tubercular pathogen with no known cure.

I'm still surprised that it didn't spread all through the mission before
we realized what we had and isolated it Hell, Margareta and I both
examined the first victim, leaned over him, touched him. Wear the suit."
The nurse nodded.

He frowned as he entered the decon chamber for his seven-minute
disinfectant shower. He was pleased with the progress of his patients,
but very concerned about the risks. He stood in the center of the small
cubicle and let the spray play over him. Well, there was no turning
back; they were into it now. He turned and raised his arms so the
disinfectant could reach the undersides of the sleeves. As long as the
proper precautions were taken, the mission could handle this.

As long as everybody decon'd. As long as nobody screwed up.

"Oh, God. Please help me. Please .. ." The man moaned softly, and bloody
tears ran from his eyes.

His pillow was smeared with the blood that seeped from his nose, his
mouth, his ears. The nurse stood beside the bed, her eyes large and
terrified. Around her, sixteen other patients lay moaning and thrashing,
dying in their own dark, bloody discharges. What was this strange and
terrible disease?

She shivered as she filled the hypodermic needle.

Nothing she or the other two nurses did seemed to help, but they did it
anyway, because they couldn't just stand by and not try. She wore a blue
hospital shirt and pants, and over them, a full-length, longsleeved
gown. Surgical gloves covered her hands and wrists, and a surgical mask
was tied tightly behind her head. They'd told her the disease could only
be spread by contact with bodily fluids, but why take chances?

She held the hypodermic up and squirted a drop from the tip, then
glanced over at the clock on the far wall. Half an hour more, and her
eight-hour shift would be finished. She couldn't wait to strip off her
bloody clothes and get some sleep in the staff's tiny living quarters.

More and more, lately, she regretted having signed on for this duty.

But who could have imagined it would be like this? The first day, the
patients had seemed like any others.. ..

The wages she'd been offered were three times her hospital pay; of
course, that should have warned her.

And she hadn't really understood she'd be living in complete seclusion.

At least she had the other nurses and the orderlies for company. And
that man who called himself a doctor, although she had her doubts about
that.

"Help me .. ." The man's body shook with spasms.

"I'm here." She bent toward the patient and put her free hand on his
shoulder. "I have something that will help you."

The man turned his bloody face toward her, his tremors slowing. "Help me
.. ."

She reached behind her for an alcohol swab and rubbed his twitching arm,
knowing such procedures didn't really matter anymore. The man was dying.

They all were. She dropped the swab, took a firm hold on his arm, and
plunged the hypodermic into the bruised and mottled tissue. The man
moaned. She emptied the contents into his arm, knowing it was hopeless.
His eyes were fixed on her face, searching for some reassurance, some
spark of hope, and finding none.

She was withdrawing the needle when the man's body spasmed again. His
arm jerked from her grip, hitting the hypodermic and sending its bloody
tip through the sterile glove on her left hand and deep into the flesh
between thumb and forefinger.

With a guttural cry, she dropped the needle and stood staring at her
hand.

"What is it? What have you done?"

She looked up fearfully. One of the orderlies stood beside her.

"I need to decon," she said, brushing past him. She ran toward the
locked door that led out of the ward, but he was faster.

"Let me see your hands," he demanded, barring her way.

"Leave me be." Her heart beat fast as she tried to pass him. If she
could just get to decon, maybe it would be all right.

He grabbed her wrists and looked down at the gloves. "You broke the
skin."

"No, it's nothing," she said, pulling away. "Just let me decon."

"Like hell. Ali!"" In an instant, she was surrounded. The two orderlies,
big men both, held her firmly while Nurse Raphaela, the one she didn't
like, stripped off the punctured left glove. The streak of blood was
bright against her cocoa skin. She struggled fiercely, screaming,
knowing what would happen, but the orderlies were strong.

Raphaela injected the soporific and they tied her into a bed. The drug
worked fast, and her screams diminished, then ceased. They stood looking
down at her, gripped by a white-hot dread. An accident like that could
happen to any of them. She had been a good nurse.

In the early hours of the Monday after Thanksgiving, a white
decontamination truck bearing no identification drew up to the curb and
waited, its motor turning over softly. Three men in black spacesuits
emerged from the shadows. They dragged eleven plastic body bags to the
rear of the truck. From inside the cab, the driver unlocked the sealed
compartment, and the men shoved the body bags inside. The compartment
locked again with a click, and the ghostly truck slid away into the
night.

Chapter Five.

It was all so different from the way she remembered it, Lucy thought, as
she and Monica pushed through the airlocked door and entered Biosafety
Level Four.

She plugged her suit into one of the thick black air hoses dangling from
the ceiling, and looked around.

An eerie blue light pervaded the empty lab. Where was everyone?

Monica took her elbow and guided her to a workstation where a rack of
stoppered test tubes stood, their contents glowing redly.

Lucy leaned closer to read the label: peruvia. Why were they glowing
like that? Monica reached over and unstoppered one of the tubes,
releasing a pinkish vapor. It swirled up out of the tube, expanding,
filling the air around the two scientists and covering the faceplates of
their RACAL suits. Lucy gasped and stepped back, knocking Monica's hand
and sending the tube stand crashing to the floor. The tubes exploded,
sending shards of glass flying. She felt a sharp sting and looked down.
Her suit was slashed open, her leg exposed and bleeding.

She stared at the gash in horror, feeling the cold vapor seep into the
wound, then fell to the floor, screaming silently into her suit.

Monica grabbed her shoulder and began pulling her toward the airlock,
but they both knew it was too late. Her leg, freezing cold, dangled out
of her suit as Monica dragged her along the tile floor.. ..

"Come on, Lucy. Get up!"

Lucy opened her eyes, her heart beating fiercely.

Monica was standing over her, kneading her shoulder.

"It's nearly seven. Time to get your butt in gear."

Slowly Lucy took in the patterned wallpaper, the blue curtains, the
portable TV on the dresser. Her pulse began to slow. She looked down.

The pink blanket had slipped off during the night, exposing her right
leg to the unseasonably cold air that had arrived the day before. "You
ever rip your RACAL?" she asked softly.

"Sleeping Beauty wakes at last," Monica said, then noticed the strain in
Lucy's face. "Bad dream? I used to have those a lot when I first started
at the CDC.

You okay?"

"Couldn't be better," Lucy said firmly. She sat up and swung her legs
over the side of the bed. "A dream's just a dream."

"Then let's shift. Traffic can be murder after eight-thirty."

They arrived at the cluster of buildings that made up the CDC's Special
Pathogens Branch just before nine, ran the strict security gamut, and
grabbed some coffee in the cafeteria. Nothing could be done without Matt
Kravitz's approval, and Monica's eagerness to beat the traffic had
gotten them there ahead of him.

As she munched a cinnamon roll, Lucy thought again about her nightmare.

Unlike Monica, she'd never experienced bad dreams while working at the
CDC. Lucy took pride in her toughness, and the idea that peruvia might
be getting to her was very annoying.

"Sorry I wasn't much help with that diary last night," Monica said,
interrupting her thoughts. "But there's not a whole lot to go on, is
there?"

"Frankly, there's too much to go on, and it all says drugs," Lucy
replied bitterly. Her blind faith in Jeanpierre's innocence had been
rocked by the diary's contents.

"I wish I'd never found the damn thing."

"Every piece of evidence is valuable, even if you don't know where it
fits," Monica replied. "You're a scientist; you know that." She stirred
the remains of her coffee idly. "So what's your next move, Sherlock?"

Lucy shrugged. Bill Miller was right. If Jeanpierre had been dealing
drugs, pursuing the truth could put her in real danger. "I'm not sure I
have a next move," she said.

"Then just let it percolate for a while," Monica advised.

"Who knows? Maybe one day you'll be sitting in your office and suddenly
the names and initials will take on a whole new meaning."

"Oh, right. And maybe one day Howard will say, "Max! Stay!" and Max will
stay."

Monica laughed. "Hey, it could happen."

"But not in our lifetime. Now, if you've finished toying with that stuff
they're attempting to pass off as coffee, why don't we go see if Matt's
decided to come to work today."

Matt Kravitz was just coming down the hall when the two women arrived
outside his office. He was surprised but obviously pleased to see Lucy,
and eager to hear about her experience in Peru. "But I'm afraid our
insurance coverage won't allow you inside the Hot Suite," he told her,
using the slang term for the Level Four labs. "Current employees only.
If you want to see the electron microscope feed, I'll call Ted and set
it up."

Which is how she and Ted Wiley came to be sitting in front of a computer
monitor, studying the images she'd come to know so well in person: a
riot of viral filaments that resembled shepherds' crooks.

Color enhanced for clarity, the tangled strands of virus showed red
against a pale yellow background.

"This is peruvia," Ted told her. A short, blond researcher in his
mid-thirties, Wiley specialized in filoviruses, and had extensive lab
experience with Ebola.

"Now here's the other strain," he continued as he typed in a command.

"I've called it peruvia two." The image changed, but the filaments
looked the same.

"Can you see the difference?"

Lucy studied the images carefully as Ted switched back and forth between
them. "I give up," she said at last. "I can't see it."

"Neither can I," he told her. "That's the point. It's like the Ebola
strains, Reston and Zaire. You can't tell the difference just by
looking."

"Thank goodness for that," Lucy said, smiling. "I thought I was losing
my touch. So how did you find it?"

"I was working with the genetic code of one of the three proteins we can
actually identify"--Lucy nodded; four of the seven proteins that
constituted all filoviruses were completely unknown--"and I found a very
slight difference in the code. Tiny, really. Of course, I can't say
exactly how that genetic difference changes the protein, or what such a
change might mean in terms of the action or transmission of the virus.
That'll take time and testing."

"Including the kind of testing you're not mandated to do," Lucy reminded
him. The testing of deadly pathogens by government agencies was tightly
constrained in order to avoid any charges of attempting to create
biochemical weapons.

Ted nodded. "Anyway, all I can tell you at this point is that we appear
to have two strains of peruvia."

"How much of what I sent you is the original peruvia, and how much is
this new one?"

"It's pretty much all the original strain. I found peruvia two in only
one sample." He frowned. "Kind of weird when you think about it."

"Maybe not," Lucy replied. "A man and his wife who were brought to the
compound with fever both had old peruvia scars. They're probably the
source of this second strain you found."

Ted nodded. "Sounds right. But ... a man and his wife, you say? I only
found it in one of the samples you sent back. It should have been in two
at least.

You did take multiple samples?"

"Yes," Lucy said, "but not from those two. They left the compound almost
as soon as they got there."

Ted raised an eyebrow. "The man was raving about sangre negra--that's
what they call it down there-being a white man's disease. He was cursing
at us, shouting, even tried to hit an orderly."

"We certainly brought them measles and TB," Ted said, "but these
filoviruses walked straight out of the rain forest." He paused. "So
there should be two samples?"

"Yes. Could you have missed one?"

"I don't think so. When I found the second strain, I got excited and
checked all forty-five samples thoroughly.

Nada."

"Forty-five?" Lucy shook her head. "That can't be right. I packed
fifteen samples in each hatbox. Fifteen times five hatboxes makes
seventy-five--"

"Three hatboxes."

"What?"

"We got three hatboxes, not five."

Lucy stared at him in horror. "I brought back five, Ted. I watched them
being offloaded at Kennedy. I saw them go into an IMA van."

"Well, two of them never got to us."

Lucy stared at the deadly images on the screen.

Thirty test tubes--shatterproof, unlike the ones in her dream, but their
contents just as lethal--were out there somewhere, unaccounted for.
"Where's the nearest phone?"

Ted led her to a small office across the hall and stood by as she
dialed. "Bill Miller's office, please .. .

Alicia? It's Lucy Nash. I need to talk to him urgently."

She listened for a moment, frowning. "What time tonight?

Damn. No, it can't wait. Can you reach him anywhere? Well, do you think
he'll call in? Give me his home number so I can call him as soon as he
gets back. Dammit, Alicia, this is very important." Calm down, she told
herself. Cursing Miller's secretary wouldn't help. "Okay, put me on his
calendar for first thing tomorrow." She slammed down the phone and
turned to Ted. "Miller flew to Chicago this morning, didn't leave a
contact number. His secretary won't give me his home phone number,
which, she was kind enough to inform me, is unlisted, but she said she'd
leave a message on his home answering machine."

"And Miller is--?

"The head of the IMA. He was with me at the airport when the hatboxes
were unloaded. He saw them go into the van, too."

"Call me after you talk to him," Ted requested. "If the samples really
were delivered here and we screwed up--"

"A CDC screw-up?" Lucy said doubtfully. "It's not very probable." The
security of the CDC's pathogenhandling procedures was legend. "But of
course I'll let you know what I find out. Meanwhile, let's not--"

"--start a panic."

"Right."

They went back across the hall. On the monitor, the peruvia filaments
glowed blood-red in the darkened room. "Nasty little buggers,
filoviruses," Ted said softly.

"The nastiest."

They stared at the screen for a long moment. Then Ted typed in a
command, hit a button on the keyboard, and the screen turned black.

Lucy had booked herself on an afternoon flight from Atlanta to New York,
planning on an early lunch with Monica after her morning at the CDC. But
now she was too anxious to sit still, let alone eat, and Monica,
overloaded with work after the long holiday weekend, didn't protest too
much when Lucy begged off. She called a car and headed for the airport,
thinking she might be able to switch to an earlier flight.

But she wasn't the only person who'd extended the weekend by a day, and
everything was booked solid. She consoled herself with the thought that
there was nothing she could do until Bill got back.

It was nearly six when the taxi dropped her in front of her building.

She dumped her suitcase with the doorman and went around the corner to
the Korean greengrocer for a carton of milk. The slushy snow that had
fallen while she was in Atlanta had turned black and crunchy in the
cold, and she found herself shivering despite the lining in her
trenchcoat. As she left the small grocery, she remembered to shove two
dollar bills into her jacket pocket for Ray, but she didn't see him.

Perhaps he was huddled in some doorway, sheltering from the wind. It was
a sad thought.

She unpacked her suitcase, then made a sandwich and ate it in front of
the TV. An old Bogart movie was on, one of her favorites, but her mind
kept wandering as she repeatedly checked her watch and willed the phone
to ring. Finally, at eleven-fifteen, it did..

"Lucy? Bill Miller. Sorry to call so late, but Alicia left me a message
saying it was urgent."

"That's right. Bill, it is. We've got big trouble."

A brief silence. "What kind of trouble?"

"The worst. Remember how you met me at Kennedy when we were offloading
the peruvia? Remember how we watched them load all five hatboxes into
the van?"

"Yes ..."

"Well, only three of them arrived. The other two are missing."

"Missing?"

"Well, unaccounted for. We're talking about peruvia. Bill--a hot agent.
What the hell are we going to do?"

"We're going to stop worrying," Bill told her firmly, "and get some
sleep. The hatboxes aren't missing."

"But the CDC didn't get them."

"They weren't meant to."

"But--"

"Calm down, Lucy. They're perfectly safe."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. You're not involved in that part of our work."

He paused. "Look, I'll explain it all in the morning. I understand we
have an appointment first thing."

"But--"

"I'm exhausted, Lucy. I've had a long, full day. Tomorrow, okay?"

"You're telling me it's safe, though. The peruvia is safe."

"Yes, perfectly safe. We'll talk in the morning."

Lucy lowered the phone, reassured but puzzled. Just what part of the
IMA's work had Bill been referring to? Well, the peruvia was safe; that
was the important thing. With a mental shrug, she switched off the TV
and headed for the bedroom.

She slept well and dreamlessly, rising refreshed at seven for a
half-hour workout before her appointment at the IMA. The weather was
still cold, and clouds were moving in as she headed for the gym, pulling
on her gloves. She scanned the streets, but Ray was still among the
missing. Had her neighbors made good their threat to remove him from the
neighborhood?

Or had he finally taken her advice and sought help from one of the
city's homeless organizations? Maybe, with the weather turning so much
colder, he'd taken refuge in a shelter. Having arrived in the
neighborhood the previous April, Lucy had no idea of Ray's normal winter
routine.

Alicia apologized profusely when Lucy arrived at Bill's office. "I was
wrong not to give you his unlisted number last night," she told Lucy.

"Dr. Miller was quite angry."

Lucy shrugged. "You were just doing your job."

Alicia nodded eagerly. "Thank you for understanding.

You can go right in. He's waiting for you."

Doctor Bill rose from his breakfast of croissant and coffee as she
entered. "Help yourself," he told her, gesturing toward the sideboard.

Lucy went and poured herself some coffee, hesitated, then took a
croissant, too. "Sorry to scare you like that," he added as she seated
herself across from him at the small round conference table. "But as I
,told you last night, there's nothing to be concerned about."

"Good. So where are they?"

He smiled. "You're always so direct, Lucy. I like that about you."

He took a sip of coffee. "Three hatboxes were delivered to the CDC as
planned. The other two went to the IMA lab here in New York."

He set his cup down.

"Your lab isn't set up to handle a hot agent," Lucy exclaimed.

"We are now."

"But that kind of research is tightly controlled. You need special
licenses--"

"I know that," he said gently. Lucy flushed with embarrassment; of
course he did "We've recently been given a special, limited license to
do specific viral pathogen research. Millions of dollars have gone into
readying the IMA lab to meet the challenge."

"I'm impressed," Lucy said. She was. "But why spend your money that way?
The CDC is already working on it."

"Along with a hundred other things. Another croissant?"

Lucy shook her head. "Lucy, I feel a personal commitment to the
forgotten people of the world. The rain forest is being destroyed,
primitive cultures erased ... I have the greatest respect for the CDC,
of course. But let's face it: peruvia, and viruses like it, are viewed
by most of the scientific community merely as interesting scientific
challenges. The world's major commitments of time and money are put
against sicknesses that affect large numbers of people. Mostly
mainstream people."

"That's not--"

"Fortunately, not everyone agrees with that philosophy," he continued,
overriding her interruption. "I certainly don't, and many of my
supporters don't, either.

Thanks to their generosity, the IMA has the funding to redress that."

"I had no idea."

"Of course you didn't. Our expanded capability is a well-kept secret.

But it's all perfectly legal, I assure you." Lucy sipped her coffee.

The concept was intriguing, but a hot lab in the heart of New York City?

"We've been inspected by OSHA, the EPA, the Department of Health..

.

. Would you like to see the papers?" he added with a smile, as though
reading her thoughts.

"I'd like to see the lab."

Bill looked surprised. "I suppose that could be arranged.

Although entrance into the restricted areas is limited to a few
employees."

"I understand. But I am a member of the IMA."

"Volunteer. Not staff."

"That can be changed."

Bill frowned. "You want to give up your hospital job?"

"No, I wouldn't do that. But maybe I could give you a couple of
afternoons a week. I could probably adjust my schedule for that," she
added, her enthusiasm building. "I'd really like to be involved in the
peruvia research."

"Oh, peruvia isn't the only thing we're working on.

We're also running several bacteriophage projects. I believe genetic
engineering holds the key to the viral scourges of the Third World."

And elsewhere, Lucy thought. "And you're completely self-funded?

That's pretty amazing." The sort of research Bill was talking about
would cost many millions of dollars.

"Well, if there's one thing I'm good at, it's fundraising."

Bill smiled self-deprecatingly. "And as I say, many of our supporters
feel as I do." He rose and went to the sideboard. "More coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"So, are you serious about coming to work for us?" he asked as he
refilled his cup.

"I'd certainly like to consider it, after I've had a look around." She
sipped the remains of her coffee.

If the lab was run properly, if all the safeguards were in place ..

.

"I'll see what I can arrange," Bill promised, returning to the table.

"Of course, the decision won't be mine. Carl Anders runs the lab.

He's a brilliant scientist, and very dedicated." He studied Lucy across
the table. "He can be a little .. . stiff. Brusque. But you're a tough
cookie." He grinned at her. "I think you can handle him."

Hmm. "I'll look forward to meeting him," Lucy replied evenly. "I'm
curious to know what he makes of that second strain of peruvia."

"What? What second strain?"

"Ted Wiley found it. In Atlanta." So much for Bill's claim that the IMA
was more fully committed to helpingthe world's unfortunates than the
CDC, she thought. "I believe the strain came from the two people who
left the compound--I wrote about them in my report. I was only able to
get one sample from each of them. The CDC has one, so I assume Carl ..
.?"

"Anders."

"Anders, yes. He must have the other one."

"I haven't heard about a second strain. Do you think it's significant?"

"In research like this, everything's significant until proven
otherwise," she assured him. "But ask Anders what he thinks. If he knows
about it."

"You think he might not?"

"Well, you can't see the difference between the two strains under the
microscope. Ted happened on it while he was playing around with the
genetic code of one of the proteins."

"I'll talk to Carl," Bill said, looking thoughtful.

"Sure you won't have some more coffee?"

"No, I'm due at General in twenty minutes." Lucy rose. "Let me know when
it would be convenient for me to visit the lab. Thursday would be good
for me."

Bill stood, too. "I'll see what I can do. Oh, and Lucy? Have you made
any progress with the other thing?"

"Other thing?"

"Jean-Pierre. All that."

"Oh." She thought of the diary that now lay hidden in her underwear
drawer. "Uh, no. No progress."

"Well, maybe it's for the best. Let sleeping dogs lie."

"Jake, you ever hear of a hot pathogens lab being run privately?" The
two doctors had retreated to the staff lounge to discuss the two new
cases Lucy had been handed that morning.

"Privately?" Jake set his clipboard on the coffee table. "Sure.

Cornell has the only existing license to grow and study live AIDS
viruses. If that isn't hot, I don't know what is."

"That's not exactly what I mean." Lucy stood and walked to the small
window. Outside, Central Park looked gray and cold. "Bill Miller tells
me the IMA has a special license to study peruvia."

"Wow."

"Yeah, that was my reaction, too."

Jake thought for moment. "Well, if he says they have a license, they
have one. I mean, it would be impossible to do something like that
without it, and he'd be nuts to try. Besides, he told you about it, so
it's obviously not a secret."

"He called it a well-kept secret, actually."

"Christ, I would think so, a hot lab here in the city.

Where is it?"

"Downtown somewhere. I'm getting the grand tour next week. They're also
doing some DNA work with bacteriophages. Jake, why would the government
approve an IMA lethal pathogens lab when we already have the CDC,
USAMRIID, other established labs .. . ?"

"He said the government was providing the funding?"

Lucy hesitated. "Actually, he said his fundraising is what really
supports the place."

"Well, that could be your answer. Miller's a highly respected doctor,
with supporters who are willing to pay for the pleasure of saving the
world. He gets a limited license, with the proper controls, and the
taxpayers save a bundle."

"But he's never done this kind of work before," Lucy said, settling
herself in one of the blue fakeleather chairs.

"So he hires someone who has," Jake said. Lucy thought of Carl Anders
and nodded. "Look, the man's a heavy hitter," he continued. "He moves in
the right circles, knows important people.. .. And that IMA of his does
an awful lot of good in the world."

"It does, yes."

"And so do you, and all the other doctors who give their time."

Lucy smiled. "Thanks. I'm thinking of giving a little more of mine."

"Oh? Where are you off to now?"

"Nowhere very exotic. I'm considering joining the IMA lab staff on a
part-time basis."

Jake looked crestfallen. "I was hoping we could get you to expand your
time with us," he said.

But Lucy shook her head. "I brought peruvia back from the jungle, and
this is a great opportunity to follow it through."

"Well, I guess we can't compete with a genuine filovirus."

"Nope." Lucy grinned. "It's hot stuff."

It was after nine when Lucy finally left the hospital that evening. By
the time she'd dealt with two new cases--an AIDS patient with
pneumocystis carnipneumonia who was allergic to Septra, the drug of
choice, and a young woman with a recurrent kidney infection--three more
cases had arrived on her desk. She'd managed to grab a minute to call
Ted Wiley and reassure him that the viruses were safe, but hadn't eaten
much of anything since Bill Miller's croissant breakfast.

Now, tired and hungry, she shivered in the light snow that had been
falling since late afternoon, and searched for a taxi.

The light on her answering machine was blinking as she came into the
apartment. Slinging her coat over a chair, she pressed the play button
and listened as Alicia's voice informed her that Carl Anders couldn't
accommodate a visit from her until the following Thursday. Well, that
was fine with her. Those five hospital cases would need all her
attention just now.

She changed into jeans and a sweater, and flipped on the TV. They'd
finally identified the homeless man who had frozen to death in Central
Park the night before. Although his description hadn't matched Ray's,
she'd found herself worrying about him. She'd scanned the streets on her
way home, but he was nowhere to be seen. She hoped he was somewhere
warm.

Next morning the sky had cleared and the cold had moderated a little.

On her way to the hospital for an early epidemiology departmental
conference, she checked out the neighborhood, but Ray was still a
no-show. The evening told the same story. Her mind crowded with the
details of her new cases, it wasn't until Friday evening that it
occurred to her that not only was Ray gone, but she hadn't seen the
young woman with the neck bandage for some time, either.

And the man with the dreadlocks was no longer rifling through trash bins
in search of bottles. In fact, she realized with a start, all the
homeless people in her neighborhood had disappeared.

Chapter Six.

"I'm still not convinced we need her," Carl Anders growled.

Bill sighed. "We've been over it and over it," he said, shifting the
phone from one ear to the other.

"She's got an excellent reputation in the field, she's familiar with
peruvia, and she's already one of us."

"One mission," Carl scoffed.

"But an important one." He massaged his ear and repositioned the phone
again. In his mind's eye, he could see people in white coats--not a
female among them-moving to and fro beyond the glass that separated the
lab director's small office from the laboratory proper. Carl's antipathy
to women was well-known. Well, he'd just have to get over it. "You've
got her for one, maybe two afternoons a week," he continued. "You can
deal with that, surely." Carl was silent. "Once you get to know hen-"

"I'll love her? Doubtful." Anders looked at his watch. "She's twenty
minutes late," he said triumphantly.

"Not a great beginning."

"Relax, Carl."

"Well, I have work to do. Where the hell is she?" here the hell am I?

Lucy asked herself. What with her residency and fellowship in the city
several years ago, and the eight months she'd spent here this time,
she'd come to consider herself a real New Yorker.

But at the moment, she felt as if she'd just stepped off the bus from
Kansas City. The subway line she'd taken downtown had deposited her some
distance to the east of her destination. No problem, she'd thought; I'll
catch a cab. But the only taxis she'd seen were off duty and moving
fast. Okay, she'd walk. She headed west and south, asking directions as
she went of the few passersby she saw, several of whom seemed as
confused as she. Down here where the island of Manhattan narrowed
tightly, many streets were only a few blocks long, and unlike the
numbered streets farther north, names like Laight and Renwick gave no
hint of any orderly geographic progression.

She passed auto body shops, warehouses, loading docks, and, finally, a
cab company. A driver, waiting for his car to be gassed up, pulled out a
well-thumbed street map and together they worked out a route that took
her, four minutes and six blocks later, to the front of a run-down
factory building some five floors in height. Large old-fashioned
windows, metallic threads set into their frosted panes, looked blindly
toward the river. Could this be right? She checked the address she'd
been given against the numbers stenciled above the plain, wide steel
door. Yes, this was it. She tried the door, but it was locked. To one
side was a security keypad; next to it was a push button and an intercom
speaker. A small video camera was bolted to the wall above.

She pressed the button and announced herself.

"Welcome, Dr. Nash," a masculine voice told her.

"Please come to the second floor." The door lock clicked open and she
went inside.

She found herself in a high, square entrance hall, its brick walls
freshly painted a glossy white, its floor covered with black and white
ceramic tiles. The only furniture were a wooden desk and chair, now
deserted.

An elevator was set in the wall ahead of her, its door just sliding
back. She got in and rode it up to two, stepping out into a hallway
similar to the one below. Steel double doors were swung back against the
far wall, revealing a plate-glass door and beyond it, a tiny reception
area. A man in a lab coat hurried toward her, opening the door to admit
her.

"Doctor Livingstone, I presume?" His grin was infectious.

"It is rather an adventure getting down here." Lucy smiled. "In fact,
I'm not quite sure where 'here' is."

"I came here from Stanford in September, and I still feel like I'm
charting new territory just getting to work in the morning. Oh, I'm
Richard Hollander." He extended a hand and Lucy took it. His grasp was
firm and cool. "Molecular biologist, senior researcher. I hope we'll get
to work together."

"That would be nice, Richard," Lucy said neutrally as she studied the
friendly young man. Well, not that young, she decided, noticing the tiny
creases at the corners of the smiling gray eyes that looked at her from
behind thin wire spectacles. Late thirties, probably.

His face was interesting rather than conventionally handsome, his brown
hair neatly cut and combed, his manner easy and open.

"Richard's so formal," he said with a smile. "Call me Rick. It'll be
nice having a woman around," he continued as he led her into the lab.

"You're the one and only."

"You're kidding."

"I think our Dr. Anders has a wee problem in that area," he said sotto
voce. "He gives new meaning to the term 'conservative." But you'll charm
him."

"I have no intention of charming him," Lucy said firmly.

"Even better." He grinned at her, then turned to hail a tall, slender
man in his late fifties who was just emerging from a glass-sided office
to one side of the wide, high room. "Ah, Carl. This is Dr. Nash.

We were just coming to find you."

Anders turned, hesitated, approached. He was ascetically thin, with fair
hair cut so short it was difficult to define its color. His pale cheeks
bore the faint scars of an ancient acne, and his nose was sharp enough
to cut a steak. At six-foot-three, he towered over both Lucy and Rick.
He bared his teeth in an imitation of a smile. "Dr. Nash.

Delighted to have you with us."

"Delighted to be here," Lucy responded evenly.

"Come into my office and let's chat for a few minutes," he said. "Then
Hollander here will show you around."

Rick gave her a mock salute and moved off as Lucy followed Carl into the
small office. "I understand Rick joined you several months ago," she
said conversationally, seating herself in one of the two guest chairs.

"Is a lot of your staff new?"

"Yes, it is. We've expanded recently, as Dr. Miller must have told you."

"Yes, that's what Bill said." She noted with amusement Carl's reaction
to her use of Miller's first name.

Don't play silly buggers with me, Anders, she thought.

I'm not one of your new hires. "I understand that's quite a facility you
have out there."

"Isn't it? We have a small animal lab, too, not that I expect you'll be
involved with our in vivo veterinary studies. Let me tell you a little
about our work.. .."

Lucy listened attentively as Carl described the methodologies,
techniques, and equipment currently being used, all of them up-to-date
and horribly expensive.

Miller's claim that he was good at fundraising was obviously an
understatement. But as Carl droned on, Lucy found herself a little
surprised at the emphasis on attempting to alter the genetic structure
of the filovirus and then testing how the changed structure affected
virulence and transmission. At the CDC, the emphasis had been on gaining
an understanding of the underlying genetic structure, and searching for
an agent that could alleviate or cure. She recalled the Ebola research
Wiley had been involved in, and the computer-assisted modeling he'd
done, working with the fusion area of the AIDS virus in an attempt, so
far unsuccessful, to design a drug with which to treat Ebola.

".. . don't you agree?"

Oops. Her thoughts drifting, she hadn't caught Carl's last few
sentences. "Um, perhaps," she muttered, hoping he wasn't proposing Newt
Gingrich for president or an end to Medicate. "And what do you think
about that second peruvia strain?"

Carl scowled. "Dr. Bill mentioned that, too.

There is no second strain."

"But there is. I saw it myself at the Centers for Disease Control."

"You saw what, exactly?"

Lucy paused. "Perhaps I phrased that incorrectly.

You can't actually see the difference between the two strains. But the
researcher I spoke with found that the genetic code--" Carl shook his
head. "An aberration. Or contamination of some kind, a common problem in
any virus lab."

"I'm certain that's not the case. There were these two Peruvians--"

"Yes, I read your report. But here we have found no second strain.

Not that it matters for our purposes," he added. "Now"--he rose,
ignoring the surprised look on Lucy's face--"I believe Hollander is
waiting. Afterward you can tell me what part of the work you'd like to
get involved in."

So much, thought Lucy as she followed Carl out into the lab, for Bill's
claim that the IMA was more committed to this research than the CDC.

Well, Carl's attitude didn't matter in the least. Ted Wiley would do a
proper job on the second strain.

But her reflections on Carl's attitude quickly faded as Rick took her
through the lab complex. Impressive was hardly the word. The ceilings of
the open lab area were double-height, combining the second and third
floors, and lit from above by a cool fluorescence. There was no evidence
of the windows she'd seen from the outside of the building. A double
skin had been built inside the original factory walls. Rick explained,
to seal off the lab space and allow for the EPA-required air filtration
system. Beyond the open-bench work area, the floors resumed their
original two levels. The third floor was divided into several sections.
One area was set aside for computer and other imaging procedures,
including micrograph duplication, and the demanding technique of
computer viral image reconstruction. Another section contained a series
of labs specially designed for "cold" work such as column
chromatography. The temperature was kept roughly akin to the inside of a
refrigerator so as not to inactivate the enzymes with which the
researchers worked. "The animal lab's through there," Rick explained as
they passed a steel door festooned with biohazard signs.

"It's kept locked, of course."

"Do you do much in vivo work?" Lucy asked.

"Very little. I think Carl has a couple of programs running at the
moment, that's all."

The second floor had more labs, as well as a large freezer storage area,
an electron microscope, and an ion shield room.

"The lab has an arrangement with Bioscan," Rick explained, "that allows
us to use some of their fancy technology on a temporary basis." Lucy
nodded. Private industry often made such arrangements with government
biomedical research groups, allowing them access to special technology
and personnel the groups wouldn't need on a regular basis. Bioscan was a
major player, and such an arrangement with the IMA would explain the
presence of the high-ticket toys she saw around her.

"What's on the two floors above us?" Lucy asked.

"Nothing at the moment," Rick answered. "Room for expansion, I guess.

The rest of the building's empty."

"And below?"

"The sterilization vats, and the nitration and pressurization systems
for the hot lab." Lucy nodded. All liquid from the hot lab was
thoroughly boiled to decontaminate it before it was discarded, and the
air was treated as well. He led her down a short corridor toward a set
of steel doors covered with red biohazard symbols. "The lethal pathogen
lab is through there.

I'm not cleared for it, but I understand you are. Carl said you'd
probably want to suit up and have a look ..."

"Yes, I do."

"You'll find a 'blue suit' with your name on it in the staging area.

And they've set up a lab area for you. It's at the end, on the right."

"Very efficient." She smiled at him.

He didn't smile back. "I don't know how you guys do it," he said.

"There's not enough money in the world to make me go in there." He
shuddered. Lucy nodded understandingly. Although she herself was
thankfully free of any tendency toward claustrophobia or panic, these
were not uncommon reactions to sealing oneself into a pressurized space
suit and entering a Level Four containment area. Which was why very few
people were cleared to do so. As the changing room door closed behind
her, she looked back. Rick was still standing there, looking after her.

She stripped off all her clothes including her underwear and put them
into a locker. Then she took a sterile green scrub suit from a shelf and
put it on.

Next came the surgical gloves and white socks, which she taped to the
cuffs and sleeves of the scrub suit, making a tight seal. A door labeled
staging area led to an inner room where bright blue Chemturion space
suits hung on a rack. She found the one with her name stenciled across
the chest, laid it on the floor, and stepped into it, pulling it up
around her body and fitting her hands into the built-in gloves. She put
on the plastic helmet and Velcro-sealed the suit, and her face mask
began to fog up. Grabbing a black air hose that dangled from the
ceiling, she plugged it into her suit. With a whoosh, the suit
pressurized and her mask cleared. The flow roared in her ears as she
breathed in the cool, dry air and looked around.

To one side was a steel door covered with more biohazard warnings and
the words level four containment.

She unhooked the air hose and pushed through the door into a
stainless-steel air-locked room, feeling the pressure change. The entire
hot lab was positively pressured so that air flowed into it, but not
out; yet another safeguard against the escape of a lethal pathogen.

She'd spend seven minutes here in the steel room on the way out,
allowing the nozzles that lined the walls to shower her with
disinfectant. But now she continued across the room and through a second
steel door. She was in a small concrete cubicle.

A closed cabinet ran along one side, and air hoses were suspended from
the low ceiling. She plugged in, took a pair of yellow boots from the
cabinet and put them on. A few feet away, yet another steel door led to
the lethal pathogens lab space. She took a deep breath, centered
herself, unplugged the air hose, and went through it.

The hot lab was smaller than the one she'd worked in at the CDC, but
what it lacked in space, it made up for in equipment. Black air hoses
hung from the ceiling, and she grabbed one and plugged in, then looked
around her. The space, tiled in white from top to bottom and bathed in
cold light, was divided into a series of well-equipped work areas. She
moved along the central walkway, glancing this way and that at the
blue-suited workers, few in number, who labored there. Several looked
up; no one smiled. This was intensely serious business.

As she neared the end of the walkway, something caught her eye. At a
workstation to her right stood a rack of test tubes. The setup seemed
familiar. She moved closer; the contents of the tubes glowed a faint red
in the ambient light. She leaned in and read the label: peruvia.

She reached for one, then stopped dead, her heart pounding, the flow of
air roaring in her ears.

She was living her dream.

"She's inside now." Rick leaned against the door frame of Carl's office.
"Looking around, as you suggested."

"She's been in there a long time," Carl said, frowning. "I hope she
knows what she's doing."

"Oh, I should think so. Didn't you say she spent two years at the CDC,
with Level Four clearance?"

Carl nodded. "But I can't get used to the idea of women doing this kind
of work. They're such emotional creatures."

I can't believe what a dinosaur this guy is. Rick thought. Aloud he
said, "I think it's more a matter of temperament than gender. I myself
would react very emotionally to being sealed in a space suit and handed
a vial of peruvia." He paused. "I think that Lucy Nash of yours is
terrific."

Carl scowled. "She's not mine, I assure you." No kidding, Rick thought.
"I prefer my women softer, less aggressive," the director continued.
"More .. .

womanly."

" "Kinder, kuchen, und kirche,' eh? Not a very progressive attitude."

"Not all progress is good," Carl replied stiffly.

"There are certain old-fashioned values, including children, cooking,
and church, as you put it, that are worth keeping--" He broke off,
looking faintly embarrassed.

"You'd better go and wait for Dr. Nash outside the changing room. We
don't want her blundering all over the place, getting herself lost."

"My goodness, no, we wouldn't want that," Rick said innocently,
unattaching himself from the door frame.

Carl watched him go. Cocky bastard, he thought.

Still, Hollander was a conscientious worker, always willing to put in
long hours. And he'd been very highly recommended by Hugh Bechner at
Stanford.

A dream is just a dream, Lucy told herself fiercely.

All hot labs have a similar look. And the rosy glow of the tubes?

Pure coincidence, and so what? But she could feel her pulse racing, her
breath coming in short gasps. If she touched the tube of peruvia, would
it shatter as it had in her dream? Would it cut her suit and her leg?
Would they have to drag her from the lab, seal her into a bubble
stretcher, and lock her into an isolation facility somewhere? Suddenly
Lucy couldn't wait to get out of Level Four.

Rick looked at his watch. She'd been in there for nearly an hour, rather
a long time for a simple lookround. Was she all right? Of course she
was, he chided himself. She was experienced, she had clearance. He
leaned against the wall. She was also quite pretty, he reflected. Smart,
too. It was after five. He wondered if she'd agree to have a drink with
him after she'd finished up with Anders.. ..

Lucy stumbled into the dim, gray decon room and hit the button that
would start the chemical flow. It was a stupid dream, and it was a
stupid reason to panic, she told herself angrily. How long had she stood
in front of the workstation, frozen with a mindless fear, before turning
and fleeing, back through the hot lab, back through the boot room, back
into the air lock in which she now stood? She closed her eyes to the
Envirochem mist that swirled around her. How much longer until the timer
would turn the nozzles off and she could leave? Five minutes? Two?

It wasn't in her nature to panic, and she didn't like the feeling one
bit. You've got to work in there, she told herself angrily, so get a
grip. This cannot happen again.

"Anders was starting to worry," Rick teased as she came through the
door, "you being the weaker sex and all.. .." He broke off as he saw her
face. "Are you okay? You look kind of pale."

"I'm fine," Lucy said.

"So do we pass muster? You'll work with us?"

How can I say no? Lucy wondered. And why should I? A dream is just a--
"Of course," she replied. "I'm looking forward to it."

Rick studied her for a moment. Something had happened in there; he
wondered what it was. He led her back to Carl's office, introducing her
to several people along the way, and making his pitch to buy her a
drink. She looked like she could use one, and he was only faintly
surprised when she agreed.

"Rather a luxury, keeping a car in New York," Lucy said lightly. The
ride uptown had restored her equilibrium.

"We Californians are attached to our cars," Rick replied, smiling. "At
the hip."

They were sitting at a window table in the Plaza's Oak Bar, Lucy sipping
a white wine. Rick, an imported lager. There were no decent watering
holes within walking distance of the lab, he'd explained, so they'd
retrieved his ten-year-old Volvo, still bearing its California plates,
from a nearby garage, and driven north to civilization.

As they left the lab, he'd removed his glasses, saying he only wore them
for close work, and traded his white coat for a rather smart tweed
blazer, revealing for a brief moment an impressive musculature moving
beneath his crisp cream shirt. The transformation, Lucy reflected with
amusement, was a little like Superman stepping out of a phone booth.

"Ever live in New York before?" she asked now, reaching for a cashew.

"First time. I've visited a lot, though."

"Still, Stanford to the IMA .. . that's quite a jump."

Rick nodded. "I wanted a change, and I sure got one." He smiled. "I
really like it. There's more independence, and fewer administrative
levels." He sipped his drink. When he looked back at her, his eyes were
warm. "I hope you're going to join us."

Lucy nodded. "An afternoon a week is all I can spare. But I'm eager to
work with peruvia."

"You brought it back from South America, right?

Probably used up all your vacation time doing it."

Lucy felt a pang at the thought of Peru and Jeanpierre, but brushed it
away. "When you love your work," she said, "ordinary vacations are so
boring."

"Ah, a fellow workaholic." Rick laughed and drained his glass. "More
wine?"

Lucy hesitated. She had nothing planned for the evening, and she was
finding Rick attractive and interesting.

"Sure, why not?" The waiter was called and new drinks ordered. "So
you're working on the bacteriophage studies? Is that what you did at
Stanford?"

"More or less. My group was working on inserting a DNA sequence that
slows aging into a tomato bacterium."

"You ever do any clinical work?"

Rick shook his head. "Pure research is what I like.

My folks wanted me to go to med school, but I knew I didn't want to work
with patients. I understand you do both clinical and lab research."

"That's right. I did pure research at the CDC. It was fascinating and I
learned a lot, but I found I missed the clinical side, the people side.
And I like the variety of challenges I get, working at General-why are
you smiling at me like that?"

"I'm smiling because I'm having such a nice time," Rick said. "I'm
smiling at you because you're the reason I'm having such a nice time."

He paused. "Have dinner with me? I know a great little French place
about six blocks from here."

"Well .. ."

"Come on, Lucy. Here I am, a stranger in the big city--"

"A stranger who seems to know his way around rather well," Lucy replied,
laughing.

Flurries drifted by the high window, glowing with the reflected light of
the streetlamps. "They have a real fireplace," Rick said. "And a
wonderful coq all vin."

Lucy swirled the remains of her wine around in the glass. I do not need
a romantic relationship right now, she thought. I'm barely over the last
one. But Jeanpierre was gone; nothing could bring him back.

And her feelings for him, feelings that had arisen so suddenly, had been
ebbing just as quickly, as evidence of his involvement with illegal
drugs had surfaced. If Jean really had been running drugs, she owed his
memory nothing.

She swallowed the last of her wine. What the hell, she thought; it's
just dinner. She set down the glass and smiled across the table at
Rick's open, eager face.

"I'd love to," she said.

Chapter Seven.

The good doctor does himself very well," Rick - observed as the taxi
drew up in front of Bill Miller's double-width brick town house. A
golden glow spilled from the high arched windows, and white fairy lights
festooned both the miniature trees in the front patio and the oversize
wreath suspended from the wrought-iron balcony a floor above the heavy
oak door.

"I guess he can afford to," Lucy said, smiling. "I'm told this Christmas
party of his is legendary."

Rick squeezed her hand as he helped her from the car. "That dress is a
knockout," he told her.

"That's because you only ever see me in whites or jeans," she teased.

But in fact, she'd chosen the expensive black cocktail dress with care.

That first dinner together two weeks ago had been followed by another.

Then a drink and a burger after Lucy's first afternoon at the IMA lab.

A movie several days later. And last Sunday, they'd driven to a small
inn in Connecticut for lunch, then explored the snowcovered countryside.
So it seemed natural for Rick to suggest they go to Doctor Bill's famous
Christmas party together.

But although Lucy was finding Rick more and more
attractive--intelligent, funny, attentive and, she had to admit,
sexy--she was determined to break her pattern of high-intensity,
short-lived relationships. She vowed to take it slowly this time and,
fortunately. Rick seemed to want the same thing.

The sounds of laughter and live music greeted them as they entered the
high marble foyer. A servant took their coats and directed them past a
wide staircase, its banister rail twined with ropes of fresh balsam, and
toward the center of the house.

The town house's two large reception rooms had been combined into one
large, comfortably furnished space. Fires blazed in the two marble
fireplaces. Bars and buffet tables were set up at both ends, and in one
corner a five-piece combo played show tunes. People danced and chatted,
ate and drank, and admired the artwork mounted on the walls and
carefully displayed inside shallow glass-fronted display cabinets.

Waiters circulated with trays of champagne, and Lucy and Rick each took
a glass as they searched the crowd for their host. Lucy waved to Alicia,
Bill's secretary, as they worked their way through the room.

"You know all these people?" Rick asked.

Lucy shook her head. A number of faces were familiar to her from the IMA
offices and labs, but many others were strangers to her. "I think he's
mixing business with pleasure," she said.

"Or business with business." Lucy gave him a puzzled look. "His medical
associates and contributors to his charities are probably here, too,"
Rick explained.

"Not just friends and the IMA crowd. Hey, Enrique."

He stopped to greet the research assistant, and Lucy's smile froze on
her face. Beyond Enrique, the cadaverous Dr. Anders had turned and was
staring balefully at her. Ah, well, she thought; can't be liked by
everyone.

She gave Anders a luminous smile, then turned and pretended to examine a
large, colorful painting hanging nearby.

"You like that sort of thing?" Rick asked, his brief conversation with
Enrique finished.

"Not really my cup of cappuccino," Lucy replied.

"I can see the beauty in it, but it's a little too .. ."

"Crude? Strong?" Bill Miller stood behind them.

"Primitive art is like that, sometimes. It taps into our primal
instincts, our primal joys and fears."

"Guess that's why it's called primitive," Rick offered.

"Actually, that's not the reason," Bill replied pleasantly.

"The 'primitive' in primitive art means unschooled in technique. Lucy ..
." Bill reached for her hand. "So glad you could come." He regarded Rick
with a vague yet friendly expression.

"Richard Hollander." Rick extended his hand.

"IMA lab."

"Yes, of course. Please forgive me." Bill turned to a towering,
strikingly beautiful woman in a daringly cut backless dress, standing
nearby. "My dear, this is Dr. Lucy Nash, an IMA volunteer. And Richard
Hollander, one of our researchers." He put a possessive arm around the
woman's bare waist. "May I present Renee, Contessa depalma."

"Contessa." Rick reached for her hand with its talonlike nails and
kissed it, and it seemed to Lucy that he held it just a beat too long.

"Please call me Renee, Mr.. .. ?" Her accent was soft and liquid.

"Hollander. Richard. Rick."

"Rick." The contessa gave him a lazy, rather suggestive smile, then
leaned toward Lucy, her long tawny hair swinging against her shoulders,
her expensive perfume filling the air between them. "And Lucy Nash. A
pleasure." Her eyes flicked over Lucy's dress, then she smiled the same
long, lazy smile. Lucy felt vaguely uncomfortable.

"Are you here on a visit, Contessa?" Rick asked.

"You must call me Renee." The contessa's smile widened, revealing small,
sharp, white teeth. "No, I live here," she said. "Well, as much as I
live anywhere."

"Here in New York," Bill hurried to explain. "The contessa has an
apartment on Sutton Place. And a villa at Amain, south of Naples."

"And a flat in Mayfair," Renee added, "although I rarely go to London,
these days. So grim."

"The contessa is a major contributor to the IMA," Bill told them
proudly. "A big supporter of our work."

"I like to help the less fortunate," the contessa said.

"Very commendable." There was something in Rick's tone that made Lucy
shoot a glance at him, but his expression was pure admiration. "Your
family is from Naples?"

"No, my family is from Villarosa, in the south," Renee replied. "It is
my husband, the Conte depalma, who lives in Naples."

"An awful man, the Conte depalma," Bill confided grimly, giving the name
its Italian pronunciation. "It was common knowledge, even then.

I can't believe you married him."

"I was very young." Renee smiled her seductive smile. "And he was very
rich." At least she's honest, Lucy thought. "We have lived apart for
many years, now," the contessa continued. "He is nothing to me."

She waved a deprecating hand and the large rings on her fingers
sparkled. "Ah, you have finished your champagne," she exclaimed. "You
must have more, mustn't they. Bill? And something to eat."

"Indeed they must."

"And you must dance," Renee added. Her eyes lingered on Rick. "It is a
party. We must all dance."

Behind them, figures swirled and dipped on the parquet dance floor.

"And so we shall," Bill said, taking Renee's hand.

"Please excuse us."

Lucy stood looking after Renee, then turned to Rick. "An interesting
character, isn't she?"

"I suppose." The band segued into a popular disco tune and the decibel
level rose appreciably. "How about some food? I'm starved."

Progress through the crowd was slow, but at last they arrived at the
buffet tables set up in front of the French windows at the far end of
the room. The garden beyond was illuminated by strategically placed
lights. "Must be a helluva place in the summer," Rick commented before
turning to the feast laid out before them.

"The smoked salmon is supposed to be absolutely amazing," Lucy told him,
reaching for a serving fork.

"Flown in from Scotland. Can I give you some?"

"Pile it on." He extended his plate. Lucy served him, then herself.

When she looked up from the table, Rick was staring at the dance floor.

Following his gaze, Lucy saw Renee turn in their direction, and a look
passed between her and Rick. Or did it? A microsecond later, Renee
turned away and Rick took his dish from Lucy, chatting animatedly as he
garnished both their plates with brown bread and capers and led her to a
recently vacated sofa.

As they ate, Lucy found herself sneaking looks toward the dance floor.

Aside from the contessa's obvious interest in Rick, there was something
unsettling about the woman.

Rick, misunderstanding her glance, set his plate on a side table.

"Would you like to dance."

Renee and Bill were just leaving the small dance floor as Lucy moved
into Rick's arms. He was a good dancer, and their bodies fit together
well. He held her close, and she could feel the strength in his arms and
shoulders, the flat muscles of his stomach as he pressed her to him.
When the song was finished, they stood entwined for a moment, reluctant
to let go, but at last they drew apart, their eyes fixed on one another.

Lucy could feel the intensity of his stare shoot through her body.

Whatever she'd thought she'd seen pass between him and the contessa had
obviously been a figment of her imagination.

"May I?" Bill Miller stood smiling at Lucy, his hand outstretched.

Shit, Lucy thought. But there was no polite way to refuse. She looked
over at Rick, pleased to see that he looked as disappointed as she felt,
then turned to Bill and smiled. "Of course."

"And I will give you a tour of the house," Renee told Rick, smiling her
lazy smile as she took firm hold of his hand.

"Why don't we dance?" Rick said quickly. Renee looked disappointed, but
followed Rick onto the dance floor. She towered over him, and Lucy was
pleased to see him holding the contessa far more formally than he had
held her.

"It's a fabulous party," she told Bill as they performed a sedate
fox-trot. "And I had no idea you were an art collector."

"Oh yes, a hobby of mine for many years. That Haitian painting you were
admiring was one of the first to be shown in this country. It actually
started the Haitian primitive craze, years ago. And you must see my
temple paintings from Ceylon--Sri Lanka now.

They're in the study."

"You have catholic tastes," Lucy said. "Most collectors choose a period
or a country and stick with it."

"True. But my 'period' is a state of mind rather than a particular time
or place. I admire the unschooled eye, the instinctive reaction of the
primitive artist to his or her surroundings, beliefs, culture.

find myself moved by their artistic purity, uninfluenced by Western
thought."

"It's hard to find any culture that hasn't been touched by Western
civilization, these days," Lucy said. "Certainly not Haiti."

"Unfortunately, you're right. Which is why my most treasured pieces are
quite old. Those two cases over there"--he gestured with his
chin--"contain some interesting examples of pre-Columbian art. And I
have several Assyrian amulets.. .."

"Isn't it a little risky, keeping such things here?"

Lucy asked.

Bill smiled. "My security measures are quite thorough, I assure you.

And the rarest items have been lent to museums; Let them worry about
protecting them." He chuckled. "Not my favorite dance," he added as the
fox-trot became a samba, "although Renee and Hollander seem to like it.
Let me show you some of my pieces, instead."

Ignoring what appeared to be an attempt by Renee to consume Rick's left
ear, Lucy followed Bill through the crowd to one of the illuminated
cases. "I don't know much about art," she began diffidently.

"You don't need to," he assured her. "Just let the pieces speak to you."
Together they peered at a collection of small statues, some of stone,
some of wood, behind the glass. "Fertility figures are found in nearly
every primitive culture--"

"Uh, Dr. Miller? Sorry to interrupt," the waiter apologized, "but
there's a phone call for you.

Long distance. The caterer took it in the kitchen. They said it was
important."

"Please excuse me," Bill told Lucy, then turned to the waiter. "Bring
the lady some champagne, will you?"

Lucy watched him hurry away through the crowd, then turned back to the
figures. Let the pieces speak to you, he'd said; how mannered could you
get? But she leaned in for a closer look. Well, they were certainly
beautiful, if a trifle overblown; not to her taste, but she could
appreciate their artistry. As in a museum, a printed label identified
the origin of each piece. She glanced at them, working her way down the
case. Colombia .. . Brazil .. . Peru .. . Was it her imagination, or was
there actually a faint similarity between these Peruvian pieces and the
two figures currently residing in her apartment? These were far more
subtle in their modeling, more finely finished. And yet .. .

What these pieces are saying to me, Lucy thought, is that I could be
wrong about the value of the statues in Jean-Pierre's suitcase.. .

.

"A little too obvious for my taste," Rick said, coming up behind her.

"Me, too," she agreed, straightening up. "Give me the Impressionists any
time."

"I meant our Italian friend."

"She's very beautiful, isn't she?" Lucy said.

"If you like the type." Rick put an arm around her.

"Personally, I prefer this type."

Lucy smiled. "Who would have thought Bill would have such exotic taste
in women?"

"Who would have thought he'd have such exotic taste in art?"

"Who would have thought he'd have such excellent taste in champagne?"

Lucy said as the waiter arrived with a tray of filled glasses. "To Bill
Miller."

"Long may he wave."

After the champagne, they danced again, and then went back to the buffet
table. The crowd, already thick, thickened.

"Hollander. Dr. Nash." Carl Anders pushed his way toward Rick and Lucy,
a glass of amber-colored liquid in hand.

"Evening, Carl," Rick said. "Heck of a party."

"Isn't it?" Carl stumbled slightly as he came up to them. "I wonder.

Dr. Nash, if you would excuse us for just a moment? I realize it's bad
form to discuss business at such a gathering, but something most urgent
has just come up--"

"I don't think--" Rick began.

"Just take a minute," Carl insisted, the words slurring slightly.

"Of course, Carl," Lucy said quickly, moving away.

Behind Carl's back she turned and rolled her eyes at Rick, who gave a
small shrug. Carl put an arm around Rick's shoulder and began talking;
she could see Rick wince at the liquor fumes. She moved through the
crowd, stopping here and there for a word with the few people she knew
and several she didn't, and ended up at the bar, where she traded her
empty wineglass for a full one. What the hell, she thought; it's a
party.

"And where is that terribly attractive man of yours?" said a soft
Italian-accented voice. "A Perrier with lime, please, bartender."

"I'm afraid he's talking business," Lucy told Renee.

"With Carl Anders. Do you know Carl?"

"I have met him, yes." Renee's eyes raked the room. "There he is.

But he is alone." Lucy turned; Anders, indeed alone, was making his way
through the crowd toward them.

Lucy shrugged. "They must have finished," she said lightly. She sipped
her wine and wondered where Rick had gone.

"You like champagne?" Renee asked, leaning back against the bar. "I hate
it," she continued, not waiting for a reply. "All those bubbles.

Too cute. Scotch is what I like."

"And Perrier," Lucy pointed out.

"Yes. But not together." She smiled. "Some things go together well,
others not. You agree?" Huh? Lucy thought, but she nodded. "You have
such a lovely skin," Renee said, drawing her fingertips lightly along
Lucy's arm. "And such a beautiful cameo necklace."

She touched the amber ornament gently.

"Thank you," Lucy said, stepping back. "Please excuse me. I must--" She
looked around quickly. Whom could she pretend to know, to need to speak
with?

"There are people you must talk with," the contessa said, amused. "I
understand. We will see each other again." Lucy hurried away to lose
herself in the crowd, and Renee watched her go, a faint smile on her
porcelain face.

Halfway across the room, Lucy's progress was arrested by a hand on her
shoulder. "Dr. Nash. Dr. Nash." She turned and found herself
face-to-face with a somewhat flushed Carl Anders. "A word with you,
please." His alcohol-laden breath was unpleasantly hot against her face
as he moved closer. I've had about enough of this party, she decided. "I
feel I must apologize," Carl continued, "for being so negative about
your, ah, your coming to work at IMA. I'm afraid I'm a little, um,
conservative about women in science."

Welcome to the nineteenth century, Lucy thought.

"But over the past few weeks, I've come to know and, er, respect you.

I want you to know that you are truly welcomed." He gestured widely with
his glass, spattering nearby partygoers.

"Thank you, Carl." But will you still love me when you're sober?

"Richard has told me of your skill, your dedication.

 ..."

So Rick's responsible for this change of heart, she thought. She wasn't
sure whether that pleased or annoyed her. "Thank you so much," she
repeated. "And now I really must have a word with .. . uh, Alicia."

"Of course. I just--"

"Yes. So kind. See you next week." Lucy moved off quickly, depositing
her half-empty glass on a coffee table as she went. The wine she'd drunk
had begun to make its presence felt, and she headed back toward the
entrance hall in search of a powder room.

The bathroom off the foyer was occupied, and a caterer's assistant
directed her down a short hallway to the den which, he told her, had its
own bathroom.

But she could hear voices behind the den's firmly closed door. Back in
the foyer, the powder room still in use and her bladder protesting the
wait, she ascended the wide, carpeted staircase in search of another
option. The darkened second floor of the town house was as magnificent
as the first, but Lucy barely paused to take in Bill's shadowy bedroom
as she hurried through it in search of a bathroom.

Feeling like a trespasser, she closed the door and cl icked on the
light. Green marble everywhere: walls, floor, Jacuzzi bath. The commode
was a low-slung, quiet-flush custom model in avocado porcelain.

Even the toothbrush hanging in the built-in holder was green, she
noticed with amusement. But that and the hairbrush lying beside the sink
reminded her that she was invading Bill's personal space. Get in and get
out, she told herself.

Her business done, she switched off the light and began to open the
door, then stopped. Someone was in the bedroom.

A rustle of fabric. Whispers.

She peered around the edge of the nearly closed door, her eyes adjusting
slowly to the darkness. She could just make out a figure, no, two
figures intertwined.

"Ah, so big," said a voice Lucy recognized. "You say no, but this says
yes."

"Not here," came a harsh, masculine whisper. One of the shadowy figures
pulled away from the other.

"Not now." His voice, pitched low, was impossible to identify.

"No one will come," Renee assured her partner, rubbing against him.

"God, I want you."

The man groaned, then pulled back. "Don't," he whispered.

"Don't stop, you mean." A rustle of clothing.

"Here. Touch them. They are aching for you--" But the man was moving
backward toward the door, his hands at his crotch. Lucy heard the sound
of a zipper being closed.

"Why did you follow me up here, if you didn't want to?" Renee demanded
of the shadow-man. Bill Miller? Lucy wondered. It must be; the height
and build seemed right. And if Bill hadn't followed Renee up here, if
she'd found Lucy in here instead, would the contessa be attempting a
similar scene with her?

Lucy felt sick.

"Go, then," Renee said angrily, adjusting her clothing.

"It is not so big, after all. I have known men--" In an instant, the man
was back in the room, taking hold of Renee, his mouth hard against hers,
his hands moving over her body. The contessa cried out.

"You're hurting me. Not so rough."

"You like it rough," the man whispered fiercely. He pulled back and
grabbed her by the shoulders, holding her immobile for a moment before
throwing her across the bed. In three strides he was at the door, then
through it.

Go after Bill, Lucy pleaded silently. Get out of here.

The contessa slowly raised herself from the bed. Expecting curses, Lucy
was surprised to hear a low, guttural laugh. Surely she'll leave now,
Lucy thought, watching the contessa smooth her dress. Then the woman's
hands went to her head and Lucy realized she wasn't leaving, not yet.
She was going to comb her hair and fix her makeup first. In the
bathroom.

Feeling slightly foolish, Lucy dropped to the marble floor, then swung
the door open just enough for her to crawl through onto the bedroom
carpet. Hugging the wall, she headed toward the bed, keeping an eye on
Renee's progress, and rolled underneath just as the bathroom light
stabbed through the darkened room.

She worked her way beneath the king-sized box spring, emerging at the
other side. The door to the corridor was some ten feet away, easy if
Renee was concentrating on her face. She peeked over the top of the bed.
She couldn't see into the bathroom from this angle, but that was okay;
it meant Rene couldn't see her, either. She stood up and walked quickly
into the hall, where she brushed herself off and ran her fingers quickly
through her curls. Well, that was fun, she thought dryly. Time to go
home. Definitely.

As she rounded the bottom of the stairs. Bill Miller hailed her.

"Have you seen Renee? There's a new arrival I want her to meet."

Behind him, a whitehaired man in a dinner jacket stood waiting.

Lucy froze. "Uh, no. I haven't."

"Well, if you do, tell her I'm looking for her, will you?" Lucy nodded.
"Enjoy yourself." He and the white-haired man moved off in the direction
of the bar, and Lucy went slowly into the foyer. Not that it was any of
her business, but if it wasn't Bill Miller up there, then who-"Hey,
watch it." Lucy looked around. "Sorry, but you walked right into it," a
woman said.

Lucy looked down at the long smear of crab salad on the skirt of her
dress, the broken plate on the marble floor. Just what I needed to round
off the evening, she thought. "I'm terribly sorry," she apologized.

"You're the one with the stain," the woman replied.

"I suggest club soda. The kitchen's through there. And you might tell
them to send someone out to clean this up."

The caterer's assistant supplied a small bottle of Schweppes and a towel
and directed her to the powder room. Which was, of course, occupied. She
was about to head back to the kitchen when the door opened and Rick
emerged, his hair freshly combed. "Lucy. There you are."

"Yup, here I am, crab salad and all."

His eyes went to the stain on her dress. "Can't take you anywhere," he
teased as he took the towel and bottle from her. He drew her inside and
closed the door. "Let me do it." He knelt and began to sponge away the
stain.

"Thanks." Lucy looked down at him fondly. A cellular phone peeped from
his breast pocket. She didn't remember it being there before.

"So where'd you get to?" he asked as he worked.

"I looked all over."

"Powder room," she said. No reason to go into the details.

"/ was in the powder room."

"You think a house like this has only one?" Her eyes were laughing.

"So do you usually call people from the John?"

"Hmm?" Rick said, concentrating on the stain.

"Oh, the cellular." He glanced at the phone, then up at Lucy. "Anders
wanted me to call a firm we work with; check something out for him."

"At ten o'clock at night?"

"It's already tomorrow in Japan. And no," he added with a laugh, "I did
not call them from the John."

"I didn't think so." She smiled. "Still, making Anders's calls isn't
your job. Why do you let him use you like that?"

"It's no biggie," Rick said. "It gives Carl a feeling of power, I guess.
And I don't mind. There. All done."

He set the towel and bottle on the sink, opened the door, and clicked
off the light. For a brief moment his body was silhouetted against the
bright foyer and an impossible thought came to Lucy, but she immediately
brushed it away. Of course not. Anyway, there must be thirty men out
there in the living room, of a similar height and build.

Bill Miller included.

"Speaking of our friend Anders," Lucy said as they stepped into the
foyer, "I understand you're responsible for a rather rambling speech he
made me this evening.

He respects me, he likes me, he thinks women are the salt of the earth.

 ..."

"Well, he can be a real jerk, sometimes. I just set him straight.

Nicely, of course. I hope you don't mind."

"I guess not. But I'm kind of surprised he would listen."

Rick shrugged. "For some reason, he's taken a liking to me." He grinned
at Lucy. "I think he enjoys my boyish irreverence."

"The son he never had?"

"The life he never had is more like it." Rick looked around. "How about
getting out of here, maybe have a drink somewhere? Or do you want to
stay?"

"Not me. Let's find our host and say good night."

They moved through the crush of people to where Bill and Renee held
court, and said their goodbyes.

Bill kissed Lucy lightly on the cheek and clapped Rick on the shoulder,
but Renee barely looked at them.

They retrieved their coats and went out into the street.

The night was cold but refreshing.

"Where to?"

"Let's walk a little."

"You're quiet," Rick said after several blocks.

"Tired?"

"A little."

"Cold?"

"Not really."

Rick put an arm around her waist and held her close. "Warmer?"

"Mmm."

Their footsteps slowed, then stopped. He put his other arm around her
and turned her to him. Again she felt the intensity of his gaze.

Slowly he drew her to him and kissed her, a long, deep kiss that took
her breath away. "How about coming back to my place for a drink?" he
said at last, holding her close. "Or coffee."

"Coffee sounds good," she said slowly. "But .. ."

"What?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, Rick. But I think I should go home."

She hesitated. "I just think it would be better."

"You mean because we work together?"

"No, I don't care about that. I ... I just want to take things slowly.

And that's hard to do, with you."

"I'll take that as a compliment." He smiled at her.

"Okay, you set the pace. Whatever you want."

"I think I want to go home now."

"Home it is." He kissed her nose and released her, then went to the curb
and flagged a taxi.

Outside her apartment building, he kissed her again, gently. "Sleep
tight."

She smiled. "You, too."

He watched her as she went past the doorman and disappeared into the
lobby. Then he turned away, reaching under his coat for the cellular
phone, talking softly into it as he headed down the empty street.

Chapter Eight.

The next day was Saturday and Lucy slept late, waking at ten to a cold,
bright day. A quick shower, a boiled egg on toast, and a cup of coffee,
and she was ready to tackle the last of her Christmas shopping.

With the holiday just over a week away, she still hadn't decided where
to spend it. Monica was agitating for another visit, and her mother had
been touting the joys of Christmas in Santa Fe for months. But New
Mexico would be difficult, even if Lucy had planned ahead and booked a
ticket, since she couldn't expect to wangle more than a couple of days
off from the hospital. And Christmas in New York was a lot more
appealing now that Richard Hollander had appeared in her life.

Not surprisingly, the festively decorated stores were crowded, but Lucy
managed to find a lot of what she wanted, including a rather elegant
blue chenille sweater for Monica and, in the unfortunately named Pet
Empawium, a set of brown plush antlers, held on by an elastic neck
strap, that were guaranteed to put both Max and Howard "in the
ho-ho-holiday spirit."

She still hadn't decided what to get for Rick.

She stopped for a moment to watch the skaters whizzing around the
Rockefeller rink, tempted to join them. Another time, she decided; when
the tourists go home. She checked out the Christmas windows at Saks, and
treated herself to a hot chocolate at Godiva.

She bought herself a new cookbook at Doubleday, thinking Merry Christmas
to Me. She put loose change in several Salvation Army baskets, wishing
for live caroling instead of the canned music coming from their boom
boxes.

And as she dropped the last of her dimes and quarters into the
outstretched hands of the homeless people who approached her as she
headed up Second Avenue toward her building, she silently wished Crazy
Ray a good Christmas, wherever he was. And the rest of her "regulars,"
too, all of whom were still missing.

Inside the apartment, still carrying her shopping bags, she went over
and checked the answering machine.

Nothing. Well, she'd told Rick she wanted to take it slowly; he probably
didn't want to crowd her.

She looked around, seeing the apartment through his eyes. Not bad, she
thought. Maybe a little messy.

She tossed the packages on the sofa and her coat over a chair, then
surprised herself by retrieving the coat and hanging it up. She unpacked
her purchases on the coffee table and started balling up the paper bags
the way she usually did, then stopped, folded each one carefully,
carried them into the kitchen, and tucked them away under the sink. Last
Sunday's papers were spread out all over the floor behind the sofa, and
she scooped them up and piled them neatly by the front door for
disposal. She went and retrieved her breakfast dishes from the dining
table along with a long-forgotten coffee mug, took them into the
kitchen, and began to wash them. The coffee in the bottom of the mug was
solid, and the remains of her morning egg had dried hard.

She scrubbed at the egg with a tired sponge, but it wouldn't come off.

Hell with this, she decided suddenly, and shoved everything into the
full-to-overflowing dishwasher. I yarn what I yarn.

She poured herself a club soda and went back to the living room to wrap
the presents.

As she crossed to the desk for scissors and tape, her eye fell on the
statues standing on the pine chest.

She dropped the tape and went over and studied them.

God, they were ugly. But she did think she saw a faint resemblance to
several of the pieces she'd seen the night before. Of course, she was no
expert. Perhaps she should take them to Bill Miller; he'd know.

But somehow she didn't think he'd take kindly to anything to do with
Jean-Pierre. No, an impersonal expert was what she needed, and here in
New York that should be easy to find.

She went back to the desk and pulled out a Yellow Pages, thumbing
through it to the Art Galleries section.

There were three pages of them: where to start?

She ran her finger down the list from the top, looking for names that
might indicate the types of art they dealt in. She'd gotten as far as
the L's when the phone interrupted her.

"Lucy? Monica. So what's the story? Are we going to see you at
Christmas?"

Lucy sighed. "Don't hate me, sweetie, but I don't think so. There's my
work at the hospital, and the IMA lab--"

"And a man named Rick," Monica teased. Lucy had mentioned to Monica that
she'd had dinner with Rick a few times, and Monica, being Monica, had
turned it into a big romance. Well, maybe it was. Or would be.

"Frankly, I'm not sure of Rick's plans," Lucy said.

"He might have to go back to California for Christmas.

Some family business to attend to, he said. Anyway, I really do have a
lot of work--"

"As long as you won't be alone," Monica said. "By the way, did you hear?
Ted Wiley's gone."

"Gone? Gone where?"

"They cut the funding for his program, and he decamped.

Said he'd had enough of government work.

Took a job in Texas somewhere."

"What about the peruvia project?"

"His replacement'll pick up the pieces, I guess. Although it's not
exactly high priority: one small, isolated outbreak, fully contained,
miles from anywhere.

And you know what the budget situation is down here. We're being cut to
ribbons; USAMRIID, too.

So I wouldn't expect much. Guess it's up to you guys."

"Poor Ted. He'd been there for years."

"Yeah, but he was getting itchy. I think he was due for a change. And
his wife's from Texas, so it's kind of nice for her."

Lucy had continued glancing idly through the gallery listings as they'd
talked. Now something Caught her eye. "Monica? Hang on a second."

The Noone Gallery. Noone. Why did that name seem familiar?

"You okay?" Monica asked.

"Sorry. I was looking up art galleries when you called. I thought I'd
take those statues of Jean's to be appraised."

"I thought you said they were worthless."

"I did, but what do I know?" Noone, she thought.

Noone .. . "There's a name here I seem to recognize, but I don't
know--Jesus. The notebook."

"What?"

"Jean-Pierre's notebook. The one he hid in that old desk. Hold on."

She dropped the receiver and ran to unearth the small leather-bound book
from her underwear drawer. Back at the desk, she tucked the receiver
under her chin and leafed through the book. "Here it is," she told
Monica excitedly. "Noone."

"Noon?"

"With an e. It's one of the names Jean wrote in his notebook. It's also
the name of an art gallery here in New York."

"Could be a coincidence," Monica said cautiously.

"Any other matches?"

"Let's see .. . Stanislas, Stanislas .. . yes, there's a Stanislas
Arts," she announced triumphantly. "And Sun God Gallery ... and Gallery
Vieillesse." She paused, thinking. "Monica, you know what this means?
Jean-Pierre must have been distributing the heroin through a network of
art galleries. It's the last piece of the puzzle."

Suddenly she felt very depressed.

"I was wrong and Bill Miller was right. Jean was smuggling drugs."

Monica was silent for a moment. "I thought you were smarter than that,"
she said at last.

"What do you mean?"

"They found heroin in his suitcase, sure. But that doesn't mean he put
it there." She paused. "Jeanpierre wasn't smuggling drugs."

"He wasn't?"

"Of course not, Lucy. Think about it. He was smuggling art."

Chapter Nine.

The young man eyed the statues she placed on his desk with distaste.
"Typical tourist tripe, I'm afraid," he said. "I hope you didn't pay a
lot for them."

"Actually, they were a gift."

He looked up at Lucy, his left eyebrow lifting. The Benton-Busch
Gallery's clientele were, apparently, not the sort of people to whom
such tawdry objects were given as gifts.

During the intervening week since Monica had made her surprising
statement, Lucy had thought of little else. But gallery hours and her
own work schedule had not allowed her to do anything about it until
today, Christmas Eve. Meanwhile, she'd made a plan.

She'd decided to start by getting a benchmark valuation of the statues
from legitimate galleries, ones not listed in Jean-Pierre's notebook.

Then she'd move on to the suspect ones, mentioning Jean's name and
looking for a reaction. If she got one, she'd probe further, eventually
offering to continue where he'd left off, and see if anyone took the
bait.

Although the streets were thronged with last-minute shoppers this cold
Saturday morning, art work wasn't nearly as popular as sweaters, books,
and ties, and Benton-Busch's owner had been eager to attend to her.

Until he'd looked at what she pulled from her shopping bag. It was the
third place she'd stopped at, and so far the experts agreed: the statues
were junk.

Thanking the man, she repacked the wooden figures and left. Time to hit
the hot spots, she thought. The Noone Gallery was just around the
corner.

But if she'd thought the sight of the statues and her description of
their origin would cause a suspicious flurry among the staff there, she
was disappointed.

Even the mention of Jean-Pierre's name didn't produce so much as a blink
from the gallery's owner, a brittle, middle-aged woman in a designer
suit, who immediately dismissed the statues as valueless, realized Lucy
wasn't about to purchase any of her overpriced artifacts, and turned
away to help a wealthier-looking customer.

The story was the same at Gallery Vieillesse. Although she thought she
saw a flash of recognition at her mention of Jean-Pierre's name, Lucy's
broad hints that she had more and better artifacts to sell were met with
polite coldness, and she soon found herself back on the street again.

She sighed, hailed a taxi, and headed uptown to Stanislas Arts.

Obviously, her approach was flawed.

Traffic was sluggish, and she had plenty of time to think. By the time
she got out in front of an antique store on Columbus Avenue, she had a
new plan.

But where was the Stanislas gallery? She checked the number against her
list; yes, this was the right place.

Then she spied it: a tiny sign beside a grimy door next to the store.

This outer door was unlocked; inside was an intercom plate with a
labeled push button for each of the seven tenants of the small,
dingy-looking row house beneath which the antique store was set. She
pressed the bell marked stanislas arts.

"Who is?" The man's heavily accented voice came tinnily through the
speaker.

"Lucy Nash. I'm a ... a collector. A friend told me about you. He said
you had very special things."

"Who has told you this?"

There was only one art collector Lucy knew, but he was a man of such
eminence that Stanislas could well have heard of him. If so, it might
give her the leverage she needed to get inside. "Dr. Bill Miller," she
said.

For a long moment, nothing happened, and Lucy began to wonder whether
she'd miscalculated. Perhaps Bill wasn't as well-known in the art world
as she'd assumed. Then, "Come to the third floor," the voice said. "I
will meet you at the landing." The inner door buzzed open, and Lucy went
in.

She mounted the chipped stone stairs in semidarkness.

It was quite a contrast to the other galleries she'd visited, and that
made her feel strangely hopeful.

A dapper, birdlike man in his seventies, wearing a well-cut dark suit
and patterned silk tie, stood on the third-floor landing. He leaned
heavily on an ebony cane, studying her carefully as she climbed up
toward him. "So," he said when she stood beside him.

"Lucy Nash."

"Yes."

"I am Beno Stanislas." He extended his hand and Lucy shook it. "What do
you collect, Lucy Nash?"

"I collect South American art," she said. "Old pieces."

"I see. Pre-Columbian?"

"Yes."

"And this Bill Miller you mentioned, he told you to come and see me?"

Lucy nodded. "He said you had some very unusual things."

"And so I do." His eyes hardened. "But I do not know any Bill Miller."

"Uh, Mr. Stanislas, could we talk inside?"

"Inside?"

"In your gallery." Lucy looked around. It seemed an unlikely location
for such an establishment.

Stanislas frowned. "You have made a mistake. I have no gallery."

"But it says--"

"I am a dealer. Miss Nash. I buy from private sellers, and I sell to
private buyers. I am not open to the public."

He turned away.

"Wait. Please. I'm a friend of Jean-Pierre Dither."

The man stopped. "I know no one of that name, either," he replied
without turning. "Good day."

"I have his notebook."

That brought him around. "And why should that interest me?"

"Because you're in it."

The old man lifted his cane, and for a moment Lucy thought he would
strike her with it, so enraged had his face become.

"It's all right," she said quickly, stepping back. "I'm his  ... friend.
His business partner. He said," she continued, improvising, "that I
should come and see you if anything happened to him."

Slowly Stanislas lowered the cane, breathing deeply in an attempt to
bring his emotions under control and muttering to himself. Another
pause. "I don't know what you're talking about," he said, but his tone
was uncertain and his expression furtive.

"We both know you do." He stood staring warily at her. He thinks I'm the
police, Lucy realized. Or a customs agent. She was uncertain what agency
would be involved in an investigation into art smuggling, but
undoubtedly there was one and Stanislas thought she was part of it.

She pulled her hospital identification badge from her purse and thrust
it toward him. "Here, look. I'm a doctor, just like Jean-Pierre. Dr.
Dither. I work at New York General. We were together in Peru, when he--
I'm a doctor. See?"

Grudgingly, he examined the badge, turning it over in his arthritic
fingers, then shoved it back to her. "Inside," he said briefly. Lucy
followed him down the short, dark corridor and into a tiny, overheated
room.

"Sit," he told her. "Over there, on the sofa."

Lucy sat and looked around. She was in a small sitting room. The
furniture was an eclectic mix, old but good. A faded oriental rug hid
most of the polished wood floor, and the walls were covered with an
old-fashioned red-flocked paper. A faint smell of cooking lingered in
the air, and Lucy realized that this was no gallery. It was Stanislas's
home.

"So, doctor," he said, seating himself in a chair opposite her. "Why did
this person whom I do not know tell you to come and see me? And why
should he think something would happen to him?"

Lucy sighed. "Come on, Mr. Stanislas. I know all about your, uh,
business with Jean-Pierre. He told me himself. Jean was one of those
private sellers you mentioned, the source of those unusual, those
special things you sold." Stanislas gave a noncommittal shrug, but his
eyes never left her face. "As for why he was afraid something would
happen to him," she continued, still improvising, "maybe he thought
someone knew about his art smuggling and what he was doing with you.

And he was right, wasn't he? Something did happen to him."

"Heroin, that is what happened to him," Stanislas responded angrily.

"The art wasn't enough for him; he had to involve himself in narcotics."

"Perhaps you bought that from him, too," Lucy said. "And sold it to
those private customers of yours.

Was art enough for you, Mr. Stanislas?"

The old man rose, shaking with rage. "I do not deal in drugs. Dr. Nash,"
he said. "It was only when Jean was arrested that I learned--" He leaned
heavily on his cane, breathing hard. "You will please leave now."

But Lucy didn't move. Instead, she studied the old man carefully and
found that, for some reason, she believed him. "Sit down, Mr.
Stanislas," she said at last. "I can see you're telling me the truth."

But still he stood glowering down at her. "Please. I'm sorry. I didn't
know myself, until he was arrested. I was shocked; it just didn't seem
possible that he'd be involved in drug running. I couldn't believe it
was true.

I still don't want to believe it.. .." Tears flooded her eyes as she
recalled that terrible night. Bill meeting her at the airport, telling
her what had happened.

But through her rekindled grief, she remembered to maintain the fiction
she'd built for Stanislas, saying, "I thought maybe you and he-- I had
to be certain."

Slowly the old man lowered himself back into his worn leather chair,
studying her, deciding. "He was your lover?" he asked at last.

Lucy colored at the man's bluntness. "Yes. Yes, he was."

For some reason, that seemed to reassure the dealer. "Yes, I see," he
said, his expression softening.

"Lovers tell each other many secrets. But why did he send you to me?"

"Well, he had told me what he was doing," Lucy said carefully. She
reached into her bag for a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. "In fact, I
even helped him a few times. I think he meant for me to continue the,
er, business relationship he had with you."

"And is that what you mean to do, Lucy Nash?"

"Yes."

"Frankly, I'm glad to hear it. I had recently begun to feel that Jean
might have been--I hardly like to say cheating me. Let's just say I felt
he might be attempting to sell his purchases directly to my clients."

His eyes went to the shopping bag in which the wrapped statues lay.

"So what have you brought me?"

"What?" Lucy followed his glance. "Oh, nothing yet. This is just some
Christmas shopping. I thought we should meet first, talk ..

."

"Of course. Would you like some tea?"

"Yes, thanks," Lucy said, surprised. "Can I help?"

"Please do not trouble yourself. It is easily made."

He shuffled into the kitchen and eventually Lucy heard the whistle of a
teakettle. "Perhaps if you would just help me with the tray," he called
out, and she rose and went to the tiny kitchen. Two mugs of fragrant tea
and a plate of frosted biscuits sat on a Chinese lacquer tray. "A mug I
can manage," he told her, "but all this .. ."

"What a beautiful tray, Mr. Stanislas," Lucy said as she carried it into
the sitting room and set it down on the low table between them.

"Beno," he told her, seating himself. "If we're going to be business
partners, you must call me Beno. The biscuits are excellent.

Imported."

Lucy smiled and took one. "So how shall we work this, Beno?"

He blew on his tea, then sipped thoughtfully. "Jean had many contacts in
many countries, built up over the years. You have his notebook, so you
must have the names."

Lucy nodded. "There's Jorge in Lima," she offered.

"Jorge Melendez, yes. Of him I have heard." He reached for a biscuit and
broke it in two. "You met with him when you were in Peru?"

"Jean did."

"Ah, that is most interesting. You see, Jean had hinted to me that Jorge
had located something very special. An ancient artifact of some kind of
course, but what it was, he wouldn't say, although it was obvious from
the way he spoke that it was quite old and extremely valuable. And yet
you say you have nothing for me?" He looked at her searchingly.

"No. Jean had, er, hinted the same thing to me, but unfortunately I had
already returned to the States when he met with Jorge. Then he was
arrested, and I never found out--"

"But they gave you his things? You checked them carefully?"

"Yes, very carefully. There was nothing."

"And you are sure you would recognize it if you saw it? You have that
knowledge?"

"I've never studied art," Lucy admitted. "But I'd certainly know a
pre-Columbian artifact if I saw one, even if I didn't know its value.

There was nothing."

"And why do you suppose it must be precolumbian?"

"Peru, Jorge Melendez ... I naturally assumed--"

"Never assume," Beno cautioned her. "Jean's work took him to many
countries, as does yours, apparently."

Lucy nodded. "The same is true of Jorge Melendez."

He smiled and took another biscuit. "How much do you know about the
world of ancient artifacts, Lucy?"

"Very little. Nothing, really."

"Then you must study, or you will be badly cheated.

Even by so reputable a man as Jorge Melendez," he added dryly. "The
buying and selling of primitive artifacts is cloaked in secrecy, my
dear. Secrecy is practically written into the contract of sale, and
unlike Bloomingdale's"--he smiled at the shopping bag by her
feet--"there is a 'no-returns' policy." His eyes grew solemn. "You must
be sure of what you are buying, and very careful to whom you sell it. It
can be very difficult."

"But isn't it equally difficult for you? Don't your buyers ask where you
get the things you sell them?

Don't they suspect the pieces are smuggled, and aren't they afraid of
getting caught with them?"

Beno chuckled. "Oh, no," he assured her. "My buyers are far more
concerned with the authenticity and value of an object than they are
with whether it was looted or stolen. Don't look so shocked," he added,
seeing her expression. "They realize there is little chance that such
artifacts were legally obtained, not with the current laws against
international trafficking in ancient artifacts. Although frankly, it
wasn't so very different before 1970. It's the nature of the business,
you see. And the nature of collectors."

"What happened in 1970?" Lucy asked.

"The UNESCO Convention is what happened. An international agreement that
was designed to stop, or at least limit, trading in objects of national
heritage.

Africa, India, South America ... so many valuable pieces had already
gone, sold to the highest bidder.

And sometimes not sold at all, merely taken by conquerors.

Oh, it has been going on for ages. The Elgin Marbles, for example .

.

."

"So the UNESCO Convention made it harder to buy and sell ancient
artifacts?"

"Harder, perhaps, but by no means impossible. It all depends on
geography, you see."

"Geography?"

"Yes. Many countries, France, for example, are not as ... fastidious,
shall we say, as the government of the United States, in detecting and
seizing ancient artifacts and returning them to their countries of
origin, as the Convention requires."

Jean-Pierre had been planning to fly to France, Lucy recalled, just two
days after his meeting with Melendez.

And Beno had said he'd suspected Jean had been planning to sell his
wares to others. If France was more likely to turn a blind eye to art
smuggling, it would make sense for Jean to take his business there,
especially if he had something really special to sell.

But if it was stolen art that Jean was bringing to Marseilles, where did
the heroin fit in?

"Another biscuit?"

"No, thank you. I really should go." Lucy stood, and Beno levered
himself erect, leaning on his cane.

He went to a small rosewood desk.

"Here is my card with my private number. Call before you come next time.
We must be careful. That notebook of Jean's," he added as he walked her
to the door, "I hope you are not so foolish as to leave it where a
friend ... or a lover .. . can find it."

"Of course not," she answered, thinking what a stupid hiding place her
underwear drawer was.

At the door he stopped her, putting a hand on her arm. "Recently I have
noticed certain people in the street below," he told her softly.

"They walk about, they look into store windows, but they are not real,
you understand me? And two people have telephoned, claiming to be
collectors and asking strange questions."

"And yet you let me in."

"I thought you might be one of them. Don't look so surprised, my dear.

Better the devil you know than the devil you don't. I decided it was
time I had a talk with one of them, face-to-face. I thought I might
learn what things they actually knew, and what they only suspected."

"But what about Bill Miller?" Lucy asked as she stepped out into the
dingy hallway. "Didn't my mentioning his name play a part in your seeing
me?"

Beno shook his head. "I have already told you: I do not know this Bill
Miller." His birdlike eyes peered sharply at her. "Why should you think
I would?"

"Bill's the head of the organization that sent Jean and me to Peru,"
Lucy replied. "He's quite the collector, and I thought you might have
done some business with him."

"Unfortunately, no," Beno said, his face clouding.

A beat, and then he smiled, all affability now, as he offered his hand
and Lucy took it. "I am going away for a while," he said. "For a month;
perhaps a little longer. You will excuse me if I do not send you a
postcard." He smiled bleakly.

"But you're coming back?"

"Oh, yes. My business is here. I simply want to allow the heat, as you
Americans so colorfully say, to die down. Well, Merry Christmas, my
dear. I will look for you in the new year."

"Merry Christmas," Lucy replied. Don't hold your breath.

So what have I learned? she asked herself, out in the street and heading
south.

One: Monica was right. Jean-Pierre was smuggling art. But I don't know
for sure that he wasn't smuggling drugs as well. Although that would be
stupid, and Jean wasn't stupid. Greedy, immoral, and unethical,
apparently, but never stupid.

Two: The United States is tough on art smugglers.

Had the customs agents at Kennedy Airport actually been looking for
smuggled art when they found heroin?

Had they been tipped off that artifacts were coming in? Perhaps, but
that still left the problem of the heroin. If Jean hadn't put it there,
who had?

Three: Beno had suspected that Jean-Pierre was cheating him. He'd seemed
upset when I said that Jean and I both knew Bill Miller. He must have
thought Bill was a private customer Jean was keeping to himself. Not
that Bill's the sort of man who would buy smuggled art, but Beno
couldn't know that.

A chill wind had come up, and she pulled her coat more closely around
her. What if Beno's suspicions had been correct? There were several sets
of initials in Jean's notebook that didn't correspond to any galleries
listed in the Yellow Pages. What if those initials represented a few of
Beno's buyers, people Jean had sold to directly, thus doing the dealer
out of his cut?

Now that was an interesting thought. Might Beno have tipped off the
customs agents out of a desire for revenge?

But no, that would put Beno himself at risk.

Unless Jean died before he could implicate Stanislas Arts. Which he did.
With what the newspapers had called a "death pill."

Why would an art smuggler be carrying a death pill?

And she still couldn't fathom why Jean would have brought back those
ugly, worthless carvings. Hell, even the customs agents hadn't been able
to figure that one out, and they'd sawn the damn things in half.

A scattering of flakes began to fall; perhaps it would be a white
Christmas after all. Not that it mattered much to her. With Rick in
California for the holiday, and all planes out of New York booked solid,
she had been at loose ends for Christmas Day. So when a colleague at the
hospital had asked her to trade days off so that he could be with his
family, Lucy had decided to go for it. It seemed reasonable to exchange
a lonely Christmas Day for an Easter Sunday of possibilities.

She passed a movie theater showing a comedy she'd been wanting to see,
and thought, why not?, enjoying the freedom of having no plans. The film
started in twenty minutes, so she bought her ticket and went across the
street to a nearby coffee shop to check her answering machine. A message
from Rick wished her a happy Christmas Eve from rainy California and
promised to call again soon. Another, from Jake Weiss, reminded her that
she was expected for dinner after work on Christmas Day, which was also
the first day of Hanukkah, and that his wife made the best latkes in
town, and that all Lucy needed to bring was her appetite. Lucy smiled
and wondered what latkes were.

In the theater, she treated herself to popcorn and a soda, then settled
back for a little escapism. She could use some, she decided.

Although the day had certainly been illuminating, she was still left
with more questions than answers.

Chapter Ten.

For many businesses, the period between Christmas Eve and New Year's Day
is a slow one. Vacation days are taken, clients are out of town,
everything winds down. But in the arena of hospital medicine, it is a
time as busy as any other, often busier. Lucy's days were full, and an
outbreak of what turned out to be a virulent form of E. coli bacteria at
the local restaurants of a well-known fast-food franchise stretched her
to the limit.

Which was why she was already fast asleep when Rick called from
California at nine-fifteen on Wednesday evening.

"Merry three-days-after-Christmas," he announced cheerily. "And how's
the E. coli Kid?"

"Tired," Lucy said.

"I can imagine. I've been reading about it in the papers out here.

Even the local Santa Barbara newscast picked it up. Sounds like you guys
have your hands full."

"That's putting it mildly." Lucy yawned mightily.

"Did I wake you?" Rick asked with concern. "I'm really sorry. Maybe I
should call back in the morning."

"No, it's okay. I can't think of anyone I'd rather be woken up by."

There was a brief silence as they both considered the ramifications of
this. Then, "Let's work on that," Rick said, and they both laughed.

Lucy reached for the bedside light, then stopped. It was kind of cozy
talking to Rick in the sleepy darkness. "My flight gets in pretty late
on Friday," he said, "but Saturday is New Year's Eve, and I was hoping
we could spend it together. If you don't have any other plans."

"I'd like that."

"Great. So what would you like to do? I guess I should make a dinner
reservation somewhere before things get too booked up. Any place special
you'd like to go?"

"You choose," Lucy told him. "You have great taste in restaurants."

"And in women. Hey, I got you a present."

And I still haven't chosen one for him, Lucy thought. Get busy, girl.

"What is it?"

"Oh, no." Rick laughed. "It's a surprise. Now go back to sleep.

I'll call you Saturday morning. Not too early," he added, and she could
hear the smile in his voice.

"That would be wise." She felt herself smiling, too.

"Good night. Rick."

"Good night, Lucy. Sleep tight."

She put the phone down and snuggled into her pillows.

New Year's Eve with Rick, she thought sleepily; what a nice way to start
the year. She remembered his body pressed against hers at Bill's party,
the intensity with which he'd kissed her afterward. Taking things slowly
was all well and good, but she wasn't sure how long she'd be able to
keep it up.

Rick palmed the cellular phone, flushed the toilet, and came out of the
bathroom into the darkened bedroom.

His jacket was thrown over the back of a chair, and he slipped the phone
back into a side pocket as he passed.

She was spread out on the bed, eyes closed. He stopped and looked down
at her. Her eyelids flickered open, and she reached for him greedily.

"Come back to bed."

"You're insatiable."

"Mmm." She kneeled and came toward him. "And you're delicious."

She took him in her mouth and he groaned with pleasure. She was very
skilled, and he soon toppled onto the bed, flushed and spent. She gazed
at him with her green cat eyes, tawny hair falling around her face.
"Merry Christmas."

"Christmas is over."

"Happy New Year, then." She smiled her lazy smile. "Now we will have a
shower, and then you will take me to dinner."

"Not a chance." He sat up, frowning. "You know we can't be seen
together. We agreed."

"Well, now I disagree."

"No."

"You are scared?" she taunted. "A man like you?"

"Damn right I'm scared. Bill Miller pays my salary."

"Oh, he won't care what we do."

"Like hell he won't. Look, I won't keep having this argument."

"You're being silly," Renee told him. "This is not Italy. And he is not
my husband."

"A good thing, too. Back in that village you were born in, your husband
would shoot us both. Or your father." But he was smiling now.

"Yes, and then we would spend eternity fucking each other." She moved
across the bed and settled herself in the curve of his arm. "Do you
think they fuck in heaven, caro?"

"I doubt they could stop you."

She laughed, then reached over and began to stroke the inside of his
thigh.

"You're going to put me in the hospital." Rick grabbed her hand and bit
it lightly, then rolled quickly off the bed and stood up. "I need a
drink. You want something?"

"You know what I want."

"You'll have to settle for scotch and water," he told her, evading her
reaching hand.

"For now."

He went through her small, ultra-modern apartment to the kitchen and
soon returned with two cold glasses.

"So what was it like, growing up in a tiny town in southern Italy?" he
asked, handing her one. "And how did you learn to speak English so
well?" He perched on the arm of a nearby chair, just out of reach.

"I came to America when I was fourteen," she told him, sipping her
drink. "My father died, and my mother and I came to live with her
sister."

"In New York?"

"No, Miami. But when I was nineteen, I got married and went back to
Italy."

"To Amain, with the count?"

"Yes. Why are you so interested in these things?"

Rick smiled. "I'm trying to picture you as a little girl. You must have
been very sweet."

"I was a hell-raiser."

"That would have been my second guess." He paused. "I can understand
your wanting to go back.

Italy's a very beautiful country."

"Do you know it? You have been there?"

"Only once. To Rome. And to Latino, to visit my grandfather's grave."

Her eyes widened. "Your grandfather was Italian?"

"No, but he died there." Rick took a pull at his drink. "He was in the
army during the Second World War. He was killed in the fighting around
Monte Casino."

"How sad. He was young?"

"Thirty-two."

"And your father? He too was in the army?"

"Navy. But he wasn't a career man. He did his time and got out."

Renee regarded him over the top of her glass. "So you come from a family
of patriots. Very noble."

"You don't approve?"

"Fighting the politicians' wars? It is stupid."

"Rather cynical sentiments from a woman who donates megabucks to the
IMA."

"Ah, but that is not politics. That is charity." She finished her scotch
and set the glass on a low table beside the bed. "Take me out to dinner.
Rick. I promise no one will shoot you."

"No, Renee."

"Well, I will take my shower, and then we will see."

She got up and walked to the bathroom, her hips swaying provocatively.

"Join me?"

"Soon," Rick said. "Let me surprise you."

He waited until the shower was running, then put down his glass. She'd
left the bathroom door half open, and he went behind it and quietly
pushed it shut. Then quickly and methodically, he began to search the
apartment.

Despite the extra load the E. coli outbreak placed on her work schedule,
Lucy was determined to get down to the IMA lab for her regular Thursday
afternoon session. But somehow the day got away from her, and it was
after four when she closed the last patient file and turned off her
computer. She always ran her eye over the next day's schedule before
leaving the office every evening, and she did so now.

The yellow Post-it, her reminder to herself to call Alicia, had been
there since Monday, but she hadn't had a minute to make the call. She
glanced at her watch.

She was already three hours late getting down to the lab; a few minutes
more wouldn't matter.

"Alicia? Lucy Nash. I have a quick question for you about Bill's
schedule. No, I don't need an appointment.

It's about that business with Jean-Pierre. I'm, uh, just trying to
reconstruct Jean's movements around that time, and he'd mentioned
something about a meeting with Bill. Do you think you could tell me when
that was? Probably around the time Jean and I went to Peru.

Well, could you check the month before?

Thanks. Yes, I'll hold on."

Jake Weiss waved a file at her from the doorway, but she shook her head.
"I'm out of here in two minutes," she told him, putting a hand over the
receiver.

"Rosemary's still here, if it's urgent."

"Not urgent. Can we talk first thing in the morning?"

"You've got it. And you better have that latke recipe with you. Yes,
Alicia, I'm still here .. . when?"

Lucy frowned as she wrote down the date. "You sure that's the only one?
Did Jean happen to say why he wanted--no, of course not. Well, thanks a
lot, Alicia.

And a happy New Year to you, too."

Lucy hung up, then flipped back through her desk diary. The date Alicia
had given her was the day after Jean had died. And the day before he was
supposed to fly to France.

Carl Anders was pulling on his overcoat as she came through the glass
doors. "It's after five," he said without preamble. "Surely you're not
planning to work this evening."

"Merry Christmas to you, too, Carl," she said, shucking her coat. "Was
Santa good to you this year?"

Carl gave one of his imitation smiles. "Yes, very good. I apologize for
my abruptness. I'm late for an appointment." He paused. "Ben and Corrin
will be leaving soon, and everyone else is already gone. How long were
you planning to stay?"

"Not long," she responded. "I've got a bunch of tabulations to enter,
and this seemed to be a good time to get them out of the way."

"You're not going into the hot lab?"

"Not today, no."

He nodded. "Good. It's a bad place to be when you're tired. Well, see
you next year."

Lucy gave this limp witticism a broader smile than it deserved, and
headed inside.

As she passed Carl's office, she noticed that his computer was still on,
the bouncing-ball screen-saver moving in slow motion. Should she shut it
down? No, better not touch it. One wrong keystroke and she could wipe
out a month's work. She went through the nearly deserted benchwork area
to the small lab she occupied when not inside the hot lab, put down her
coat, and activated her own computer terminal.

"Like the filovirus Ebola, the peruvia virion contains seven
polypeptides," she typed. "The function of protein VP402, found in the
viral membrane, is unknown.

In this, as well as in its molecular weight, it resembles VP40, found in
the Ebola virion membrane."

In her early attempts to separate and identify the seven proteins of the
peruvia virus, she'd been surprised by their uncanny resemblance to the
virion proteins of Ebola and Marburg, two filoviruses which had their
origins in Africa. But on reflection, she'd decided that perhaps it
wasn't so surprising after all. Eons ago, Africa and South America had
been one continent.

Considering the fact that filoviruses were some of the planet's oldest
life-forms, they would have had plenty of time to migrate across that
huge land mass before it split apart.

She finished transcribing her notes, then closed the proteins file and
opened the morphology file. That, too, needed bringing up to date.

"Virion density is 1.34 g/ml as determined by centrifugation in a
potassium tartrate gradient," she typed. "The single molecule of linear,
negative-sense, single-stranded RNA it contains is approximately 12.9 kb
in size and constitutes 1.3 percent of the virion mass."

"So long, Lucy." Ben, one of the lab researchers, stood at the door.

"Happy New Year."

"You leaving?"

"We both are," Corrin said, appearing behind Ben.

"Don't work too late. It's kind of a creepy neighborhood at night."

"I won't," Lucy promised.

They disappeared toward the elevator, and Lucy yawned and stretched.

It had been a long day. "Peruvia appears as either a long filament,
sometimes branched, or in a shorter U or 6 shape. While filamentous
forms vary in length, up to 12,000nm as observed in our samples, the
length for peak infectivity appears to be approximately 1050nm.. .

."

How curious, Lucy reflected, that the length of each separate viral
strand affected its virulence. Curious, too, that virulence increased
with length up until 1050nm, and then dropped off as virions got longer.

A viral strand of 10,500nm was far less lethal than one of 1050nm. The
same was true of Ebola, although the actual measurements were slightly
different. And nobody knew why.

"The mode of entry of the peruvia virus into cells remains unknown," she
typed. "Messenger RNA is abundant in infected cells, but virion RNA is
not detectable, suggesting rapid packaging of genomic RNA."

In a recent discussion of her research with the closed-mouth Carl, she'd
managed to winkle out of him the fact that he was attempting to clone
peruvia's genomic RNA in order to produce an RNA diagnostic probe
specific for the virus. Using such a probe, she knew, one could then
develop a polymerase chainreaction diagnostic assay. She wondered how he
was getting along.

The lab was deserted, and his computer was on-dare she have a look?

All the lab computers were networked together, since researchers
frequently traded data. She could access Carl's files through her own
terminal. She typed in his name and a file request, followed by the word
peruvia, scanning idly through the list of documents that appeared on
the screen. rna clone; yes, there it was. She'd highlighted it and was
about to call it up when her eye drifted lower. sangre negra.

Now that was odd.

Sangre negra was the local term for peruvia; it wasn't actually a
separate virus. Was it?

She recalled the old Peruvian, angry and fevered, insisting that sangre
negra was an evil spirit that had returned. Returned as peruvia,
obviously. So why would Anders have a separate file marked sangre negra?
Why should he even know that purely local name for the disease?

She tried to think whether her report had mentioned sangre negra;
presumably it had. Still, why should Anders have created a separate file
for it?

One way to find out, she thought. She tried to call it up, but the
screen turned red, and the word restricted appeared.

Odder and odder.

She closed the program's windows and started again, asking the computer
to search for all references to the words sangre negra. It provided her
with a list of two, the first reading sangre negra, the second, sangre
negra followed by a date. The date was two years old.

She closed the window and typed in the second reference. Again, the
screen turned red and the restricted warning appeared.

"Why are you attempting to access my private files?" Lucy gasped and
swung around to face a furious Carl Anders. "Shut down that terminal
now."

"Jesus, Carl," Lucy stuttered. "You scared the hell out of me."

Anders didn't reply. He simply reached around her and hit a few keys.

Instantly, the screen turned black.

"My private files," he told her with barely controlled anger, "are none
of your business."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I just wanted to see your progress on the RNA
clone--"

"Then you ask me to show it to you." Carl's normally pale face was
flushed, his fists clenched. "I told Miller we didn't need you here, I
told him you'd be nothing but trouble."

"Trouble? I'm the most experienced researcher you've got, Carl. I'm
sorry if you have a problem with women--"

"I have a problem with you.

Dr. Nash. Those files are restricted. How dare you--" For a moment Lucy
thought he might hit her. She forced her chair back against his legs,
stood and faced him, keenly aware of the dark, empty lab in which they
stood. "It was an accident," she said as calmly as she could manage. "I
was looking for the genome file." She tried to think if there was
anything on the desk behind her with which she could defend herself.

Maybe the lamp ... "I told you I was sorry--"

"Shut up." A pause. "Is that why you came here so late today, when you
knew everyone would be gone? To try and read the sangre negra file?" He
fixed her in a cold, unwavering glare and she saw anger in his eyes, and
something else.

Fear.

"Of course not," she said hotly. "I was looking for the RNA clone file,
and I happened to notice the sangre negra listing, that's all.

It's the local name for peruvia, and I wondered .. ."

"You wondered .. . what?"

I wondered why you had a restricted file that's dated two years before
the disease that its name describes was actually discovered. Aloud she
said, "I ... I was just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat." He stared balefully at her.

"Are you threatening me, Carl?" Her hand inched across the desk toward
the lamp. She wished fervently that Corrin and Ben were still here.

He held her gaze for a moment longer, then stepped away from her. "No,
of course not." He ran a hand across his forehead. "I've had several
unfortunate experiences in the past, with people stealing my research."

He scowled at her. "Now I guard my work carefully."

"But sangre negra .. . That's peruvia. It's my work, too."

Carl shook his head. "No, the file you saw has nothing to do with
peruvia."

"But the local Peruvians--"

"The term is a generic descriptive," he said impatiently.

"Black blood, dark blood. It could fit any number of tropical
illnesses--dengue fever, for instance."

He paced the length of the small lab, his anger dissipating.

"The file refers to some old research I did privately in Mexico. It has
nothing to do with the IMA. The name is a coincidence." He turned to
her, his expression daring her to disagree.

Old research? The file was dated only two years earlier. But she just
nodded.

"And now I think we've both done enough work for this evening," he said
firmly. "I'll walk you out and get you a taxi. This is a rough
neighborhood."

And getting rougher, Lucy thought, reaching for her coat.

Her alarm woke her at six the next morning, and she was on her way
downtown by six-thirty. She'd heard that Carl rarely got in before nine.
She had plenty of time to have another go at those restricted files and
be at New York General for eight o'clock rounds.

She gazed out of the taxi window at the Hudson River, silver-gray in the
early light, the near shore patched with ice. After that first,
confusing visit, she'd always taken taxis to the lab. It was expensive,
but far more direct: a straight shot west, and then down along the
river.

She rode the elevator to the second floor, fumbling in her purse for the
keycard she'd been issued. As with many businesses in the city, the
heavy glass doors were kept locked, even during the day. She stepped out
into the dark hallway and peered through the glass. A faint glow
illuminated the short hallway that led from the reception area into the
lab. Carl must have left a light on last night, in his rush to evict
her.

Or was someone else already here?

Cautiously, she inched her way along the hallway, then stopped. The
high, open work area was in shadow, the only light source a half-open
door. Beyond the door was a lab. A lab that should have been empty.

She tiptoed across the floor. He was seated at the computer terminal at
the far end of the room, studying something on the screen with great
concentration.

"You're supposed to be in California," she said to his back.

He started violently, then swung around and stared at her. "Jesus.

Lucy. What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same of you."

"Christ, you practically gave me a heart attack."

They looked at each other for a moment, then Rick laughed. "Anders
changed a timetable on me. Suddenly decided he needed this stuff
pronto." He hit a key as he rose, and the screen went blank. "I grabbed
a 'red-eye' flight, got in around four this morning."

He enfolded her in his arms. "God, you smell great.

I was going to call you at the hospital this morning," he continued,
releasing her. "I never imagined you'd turn up here." He eyed her
questioningly.

"I just came by to print out some data. I was so exhausted last night, I
forgot." For a fleeting moment she considered telling Rick about the
restricted files, then remembered how tight he was with Anders and
thought, better not. It wasn't that she didn't trust Rick, but she
doubted he would react positively to the idea of her snooping through
Carl's private files. "I guess I'd better get busy," she said.

"Want some coffee?" he asked, putting an arm around her and walking her
through the open-bench work area toward her lab. "There's a fresh pot in
the kitchenette."

"No, I can't stay long. I have an early consult." She eyed him
critically. "You look exhausted."

"I am. Those night flights are murder." He stood in the doorway and
watched her as she slid into the chair in front of her computer
terminal. "You, on the other hand, look wonderful. I really missed you.
Luce."

"I missed you, too." She smiled up at him. He did look awfully tired.

"Tomorrow night'll be great," he said. "A corny, old-fashioned New
Year's Eve at the Rainbow Room.

Champagne, funny hats, a dance band, the whole nine yards."

"Sounds like fun."

"Well, I better let you get to work. I'll call you later. Maybe we can
meet for a drink or something."

"Maybe. Although my days at the hospital have been turning into nights
this week. And you look like you could use some sleep."

"I could. Well, let's see how today goes." He came up behind her and
kissed the top of her head. "It's good to be back." He went to the door,
then stopped.

"Sure you don't want any coffee?"

"No, thanks."

"Okay, then."

Lucy watched him head toward the kitchenette, then turned her attention
to the computer screen. She brought the screen alive, then typed in the
same series of commands she used the previous evening. Nothing.

No sangre negra, no red screen, no restricted warning.

Hmm .. . She tried again, and managed to bring up Carl's file list.

She scrolled down it to the bottom, then back up again, carefully
scrutinizing every entry.

The sangre negra files were gone.

"Shit," she said aloud. "Goddamnit."

"Something wrong?" Rick stood at the door, a steaming cup in his hand.

"No. It's nothing," she said, shutting down the terminal.

"All done." She stood and came toward him.

"Don't forget your printout again," he said, smiling.

"Right." She went back to the workstation, grabbed some papers at
random, and stuffed them in the pocket of her coat. "Thanks. Wow, I
didn't know it was so late."

"Talk to you later," he called to her retreating figure.

He watched her disappear into the hallway, listening for the soft thunk
of the heavy glass doors closing behind her. Then he went to her desktop
printer, raised its lid, and put his hand inside. Stone cold.

He sank down in front of her computer terminal and contemplated the dark
monitor screen, sipping his coffee and wondering.

Chapter Eleven.

The blue silk suit or the black dress with the matching jacket?

This dinner invitation from Bill Miller had surprised and unsettled her.
Had Anders complained to him about her snooping? She hadn't seen Carl
since their run-in two weeks ago; he'd been out of the lab on business
this past Thursday. Could this be Bill's way of sugarcoating a request
that she no longer donate her time to the IMA? No, that was silly. He
might take her to lunch for such a purpose, but hardly to dinner at Le
Regence.

The black, she decided. And the gold-twist earrings.

New Year's Eve had come and gone, and with it, Lucy's will power; she
and Rick had become lovers in his surprisingly impersonal one-bedroom
apartment.

They'd spent the following day curled up together, eating Chinese
takeout, watching the rain drip down the windowpanes, and exploring each
other's bodies.

But despite the bliss of that first night and day, Lucy felt a certain
reserve, whether in him or in herself, she couldn't say. Yet she'd felt
no reticence in telling him about her brief affair with Jean-Pierre, and
her determination to clear his name. He seemed untroubled by the former
and approving of the latter, but he didn't push when she turned down his
offer of dinner and a movie the following evening. He seemed content to
let her set the pace. In the ten days since then, they'd seen each other
a total of four times, their evenings together always ending with
lovemaking at his apartment.

Rick was a gentle and attentive lover, and an amusing and pleasant
companion. But for some reason she couldn't define, Lucy was not yet
ready to invite him into her own space, or to spend another entire night
in his. So far. Rick had accepted this.

She pulled out a pair of black sling-back heels and stepped into them,
then surveyed herself in the fulllength mirror. Not bad, she thought.

Not bad at all for a woman who's spent the past nine hours at work in
one of the city's busiest medical centers.

He rose to greet her as the maitre d' led her to the corner banquette
he'd commandeered. "I'm so glad you could join me," he told her. "How
very beautiful you look. No one would guess you'd been up to your elbows
in gore all day."

Several nearby patrons turned to stare. "Infectious diseases isn't a
particularly bloody specialty," she replied, smiling.

"Of course not. Now, what would you like to drink?

Champagne?"

"A glass of the house white would be--oh, why not? Champagne."

Bill nodded his approval. "Another Perrier Jouet," he told the waiting
maitre d', then turned back to Lucy. "Have you been here before?"

"No."

"It's one of my favorite places. And the lamb is excellent."

It was obvious that Bill was a favored patron. The wine arrived
immediately, as did a small dish containing four delicate hors
d'oeuvres. An obsequious waiter hovered with menus, but Bill waved him
away.

"To you, doctor," he told Lucy. "I think you'll enjoy this."

Lucy sipped. "It's delicious," she told him. It was, very.

"I'm not much of a drinker," he said, "but what I do drink, I like to
enjoy." He swirled the pale liquid around in his glass. "What's that old
saying? "Life's too short to drink bad wine."

"

"A good philosophy if you can afford it."

"Sorry," he said, his smile fading. "I didn't mean to be insensitive."

"And I didn't mean to get heavy," Lucy said. "God knows, you do more
than your share for people who can't."

"Yes. Well." Bill looked modestly down at his glass, then raised his
eyes to her. "As do you, Lucy. Which is what I wanted to talk to you
about." Uh-oh, Lucy thought. "But let's deal with the menus first, shall
we?"

They decided on the lamb, and a good Bordeaux to go with it, Bill
transmitting their order to the waiter and consulting with the wine
steward in perfect, colloquial French. "It's my mother tongue," he
explained to Lucy. "Literally. My mother was French."

"It's a beautiful language."

"Isn't it?"

"Were you born in France?"

Bill laughed. "Good lord, no. My father was career navy; ended up at the
Pentagon."

"My father was in the military, too. An army surgeon."

Bill looked surprised but pleased. "I didn't know that." He took a small
sip of wine. "Anyway, I did two years at the Sorbonne, mostly to please
my mother." He paused, remembering. "At the time I was considering a
career in the diplomatic corps."

"Mostly to please your father?" Lucy teased.

"Afraid so." He fell silent as the waiter refilled her glass. "When my
mother died," he resumed, "I went back home--well, I went to Harvard,
actually. And I had an epiphany of sorts: I realized medicine was what I
really wanted to do."

He leaned back against the cushioned seat and looked out over the
well-heeled crowd that filled the expensive restaurant. "I lead a double
life, Lucy. It's true," he insisted, smiling at her startled expression.

"I live in the world of missions and homeless shelters, of third-world
people struggling against the legacy of colonial powers, of illness and
poverty.. .. But this is my world, too." He gestured at the scene before
them.

"Money and power and success. These are the people who pay the bills.

I get my funding from this world. I draw power and support from it.

And frankly," he concluded, turning to smile boyishly at Lucy, "I enjoy
it."

"Who wouldn't?" Lucy replied automatically.

Where was he going with this?

"What I mean is, it's important to be pragmatic."

He tasted the red wine and nodded to the sommelier.

"I've always been something of a left-wing revolutionary, Lucy. I've
always supported the underdog. I'm probably the only person in this room
who ever sent money to the Black Panthers." He chuckled. "But people are
so very black-and-white in their thinking.

In many people's eyes, enjoying myself with a beautiful woman in an
expensive restaurant makes me a traitor to the cause, no matter how much
I support it with money and personal commitment. Yet this is where the
money and power for social change comes from, not the back alleys of the
poor and victimized."

"I didn't realize you were a political activist, along with everything
else," Lucy said, somewhat at a loss as to how to react to this sudden
dialectic.

"But what else would you call what we do, if not political activism?

Caring for the underdog is a political statement."

"I think it's more a social responsibility," Lucy replied lightly.

"Surely you can work at a homeless shelter or vaccinate children in the
slums of India and still vote Republican."

Miller shrugged. "The point I was trying to make is that the achievement
of the goal is what's important.

Attitude without action is worthless." He tore off a piece of warm bread
and ate it. "I like you, Lucy.

You're action-oriented, you're courageous, you're smart. I know about
your work in Peru, of course.

I've been hearing excellent things about you from colleagues in the
medical community."

"You've been checking up on me?" Lucy found she was more amused than
annoyed.

"Oh, that phrase has such an unfortunate connotation."

Their Caesar salads arrived, and Lucy ate a forkful and realized she was
hungry. "Of course, we checked your references fully before the IMA
accepted you as a volunteer. But now it's even more important."

Lucy frowned. "I don't care for mysteries. Bill," she said. "Why don't
you tell me what's going on?"

"Your directness is one of the things I like best about you. But I'm not
going to tell you until dessert.

It's good news, I promise." He smiled conspiratorially and attacked his
salad. "Meanwhile," he said between forkfuls, "why don't you tell me how
things are going at the lab?"

Lucy hesitated--either Carl hadn't told Bill about the incident, or
Miller considered it unimportant. In either case, Lucy decided, he ought
to hear about it from her. "How well do you know Carl Anders?" she asked
him.

"Carl? Been with me for years. Tops in his field, absolutely dedicated.
Not the easiest person to get along with, but completely reliable." He
looked sideways at her. "You guys had a run-in of some kind, I
understand."

"Yes. As Carl probably told you, I was scanning through his data lists."
Bill nodded. "I was looking for his work on an RNA clone. I probably
should have asked him for the file, but the rest of us trade information
through the network all the time.. ..

Anyway, he went ballistic, but that's not the point."

She reached for her wineglass, then changed her mind and drank some
water. "I found some files marked 'sangre negra." One had a date of two
years ago. Carl acted really funny about it, and the next day, the files
had disappeared."

"And?" Bill leaned back, an expression of casual interest on his face.

"Sangre negra is peruvia. How could Carl have information about peruvia
that's two years old?"

Bill smiled and shook his head. "That's not peruvia." The salad plates
were cleared and the lamb arrived.

"Carl has permission to pursue his personal research projects at the
lab--that's always been part of my deal with him--and he keeps his
private data in the computer."

"But sangre negra--"

"Let me finish, Lucy. I had a long talk with Carl, when he came to
complain that you'd been trying to access what he termed 'classified
information." His term, not mine."

"But why should important research information be kept secret? I'm
working on peruvia, too."

"I just told you," Bill said impatiently. "The sangre negra files you
found have nothing to do with peruvia.

How's your lamb?"

"Delicious."

"You haven't even tasted it. Go on. You eat, I'll explain." He waited
until she picked up her cutlery, then continued. "When Carl came to me,
ballistic, as you put it, I went into the whole matter thoroughly.

It seems that some years ago, Carl did a study of a small localized
illness in rural Mexico. The people there called it sangre negra."

"And now sangre negra has spread to Peru? My God, that's--"

"No, Lucy.

The Mexican 'sangre negra' turned out to be a hantavirus, a very close
relative of the Sin Nombre hantivirus that broke out in Four Corners
back in 1993. Remember?"

"Yes. The vector was a deer mouse." Lucy ate a piece of roast potato.

"Still, doesn't it seem a little odd that the name the local Mexicans
gave the Sin Nombre lookalike would be the same as the one the local
Peruvians gave peruvia?" Bill shrugged. "Not really," he said, turning
his attention to his plate. "Both the Mexicans and the Peruvians were
merely describing a symptom. Hantaviruses produce symptoms similar to
filoviruses. Hell, you know that; it's your field."

"But why would those sangre negra files be in Carl's peruvia folder?"

"Who knows? Maybe he was doing some cross-referencing, comparing genome
sequences or something."

"Then why did they suddenly disappear?"

"Hell, they were his private files, Lucy," Bill replied testily. "He
could move them wherever he wanted to."

He looked around for the wine waiter to refill their glasses. "Look,
he's assured me the files have nothing to do with peruvia, and that's
good enough for me."

He gave Lucy a hard look that said "and it should be good enough for
you, too."

"Has he shown them to you?"

"I haven't asked him to." Bill frowned.

"Maybe you should."

He sighed. "Don't go looking for mysteries where none exist, Lucy. We
all have better things to do." He put down his fork and reached over to
touch her hand.

"I know these past few months have been a terrible strain on you.

Jean-Pierre's death hit you hard--his suicide, his involvement in
narcotics. It's natural for you to be a little .. . emotional in your
interpretation of events--"

"Emotional? I'm a physician, a professional scientist."

Lucy's eyes flashed. "Don't treat me like some lovesick teenager, Bill.
I saw what I saw, and I drew a perfectly reasonable conclusion."

"Yes, of course," he said soothingly.

"And don't patronize me."

A beat. "I'm sorry. It's just ... I hurt for you, Lucy."

"Well, don't."

"I'd like to help you put it all behind you."

Lucy froze; was he making a pass at her? His eyes locked on hers, and
she thought, oh, shit, and looked away, reaching for her wineglass. "I
can see why you love this restaurant," she said. "The food is
excellent."

Bill smiled a sad little smile of understanding. "I saw you with Rick
Hollander at the Christmas party, but I wasn't sure .. . You've been
seeing each other?"

Lucy nodded. "I'm happy for you. Uh, Lucy? About Jean-Pierre.

Alicia tells me you called her about a meeting we had scheduled." He
paused. "I thought you'd dropped that whole business."

"I have, more or less. It's just that I remembered Jean mentioning a
meeting with you, and I thought I'd follow it up. One last lead."

"Well, as Alicia told you, the meeting never happened.

He died the day before."

"Yes. Did he tell you what he wanted to talk about?"

Bill frowned, thinking. "He didn't arrange the meeting with me directly.
He called Alicia and asked to be put on my calendar."

"And she didn't ask him why?"

"No. People come and talk to me all the time." His tone was amused.

"Do you think he wanted to sell me some drugs? Sorry," he added quickly,
seeing her face. "That was uncalled for."

He wanted to sell you something all right, Lucy thought grimly, but it
wasn't drugs. "Never mind. It's not important." Telling Bill about
Jean's art smuggling would only add weight to his conviction that Jean
was smuggling drugs, too.

The waiter approached with dessert menus. "You must try the apple flan,"
Bill said as Lucy took the card. "Or the hazelnut vacherin." A beat. "So
you're still trying to clear his name?"

"No," she said, studying the list of sweets. "I've decided to take your
advice. I'm still not convinced he put the heroin in his suitcase, but
whoever did-well, it's just too dangerous to pursue."

"Good decision."

They ordered dessert and coffee, and Lucy, attempting to lighten the
conversation, told him again how much she'd enjoyed the Christmas party.
"And your art collection," she added. "So many beautiful things."

"Ah, my great indulgence." Bill beamed at her. "I could tell you that
it's my way of preserving the culture of indigenous people, many of whom
have been colonized out of existence. And that would be the truth.
But"--he smiled conspiratorially--"not the whole truth. The fact is, I'm
a fanatic about the stuff.

That's what real collecting is about, you know: the fanatical desire to
possess something of beauty."

"You don't look like a fanatic." Lucy smiled.

"It's my only failing." He smiled disarmingly and signaled the waiter to
refill her wineglass, but Lucy shook her head.

"I have early rounds tomorrow."

"Yes, and speaking of work .. ." Bill stirred sugar into his coffee,
sipped it, set it down. "I'm thinking of offering you a job."

"I have a job." Lucy turned to look at him.

"I can offer you a better one, starting in June when your contract with
the hospital is up for renewal. How does President of IMA Medical
Services sound?"

"Chuck Bennington's job?" Lucy frowned.

"He's being moved abroad." Bill paused. "Think about it. Travel,
hands-on medicine, a job with fulltime social importance. And a
fifty-percent pay raise over what you're making now. How about it?"

"I don't know. Bill," she said slowly. "I'm pretty happy doing what I'm
doing."

He looked nonplussed. "It's a great opportunity."

"I'm sure it is."

"Most people with your social conscience would jump at it."

"Let's not make this into a sociopolitical issue," she said lightly.

"There's a lot to consider."

"Well, frankly, it is a sociopolitical issue," Bill replied.

"That's the whole point. I thought you understood."

He sipped his coffee. "I thought you agreed with my theory of political
activism."

"I believe in taking positive action to combat social ills," Lucy said
slowly, "but I'm not real big on political theory. And I certainly don't
want to make career decisions that way."

Bill was silent for a moment. "Then think about it in terms of a career
move. I promise you, it's a good one."

"I'll think about it. Bill. That's all I can say right now."

"Fair enough. And whatever you decide, I know you'll never stop working
for social justice. You're as committed to the underdogs of this world
as I am."

He beamed at her. Lucy frowned. All this talk of political activism was
making her feel distinctly uncomfortable.

. "I can see that such praise embarrasses you," he continued. "Your
modesty is part of your charm."

Jesus, she thought; he's laying it on a bit thick.

"You give me far too much credit," she told him firmly. "I'm a doctor,
not a social reformer."

"And an excellent one, so I'm told. I really want you on our team,
Lucy."

"I'll think about it," she repeated. No way would she trade her current
position, with its balance of hands-on medicine and lab research, for an
administrative sinecure. Still, she should at least acknowledge his
generosity in making the offer. "Thank you for your, er, confidence in
me."

"I have every confidence in you, Lucy," he said heartily. "Despite what
Carl Anders says."

Chapter Twelve.

The sleek black car drove slowly along the quay, heat waves shimmering
off its hood. The scents of tropical foliage and saltwater floated on
the air, but the passenger, insulated behind tinted windows and air
conditioning, was oblivious to them. The car rolled past an assortment
of million dollar vessels, all sporting satellite dishes, and one with a
helicopter perched on its upper deck.

A playful breeze tousled the heads of the royal palms lining the marina
and sent a chorus of wavelets dancing along the surface of the
aquamarine sea.

"There it is, sir," the driver announced through the intercom. "That's
the Cristobel."

The car slowed, then stopped in front of a broad teak walkway leading up
to a large white wedding cake of a ship, no helicopter garnishing its
upper deck but with plenty of room for one. A uniformed steward rushed
forward to open the passenger door. "Welcome, Dr. Miller," he said
deferentially, his English softly accented. Greek, Bill thought.

Or Cypriot. "Mr. Kiamos awaits you in the salon."

Bill followed the young man up the walkway and onto the ship. It was not
the first time he'd been invited onto the vessels of the rich and
occasionally famous, but the Cristobel was beyond his experience.

As was her owner's pocketbook.

Alexander Kiamos rose with difficulty from the gold brocade sofa. Short,
bald, and impressively fat, with a handsome, rather trivial face, he
bore a faint resemblance to the late Aga Khan.

But despite his fondness for florid decor and ornamental women, one of
whom was currently curled beside him, there was nothing trivial about
Kiamos's mind or his fortune. He embraced Bill warmly, then waved his
hand at a servant who immediately dispensed preprandial drinks.

The salon was icy with air conditioning, and Bill wondered why the older
man spent half the year in the tropics. But of course it was where the
action was, if the action you craved was high-stakes gambling and
screwing around with the dim descendants of deposed royalty.

Kiamos himself was the full stop at the end of a deposed royal line, and
had spent serious amounts of money over the years on misguided schemes
to resurrect and seat himself on one throne or another.

But it would be wrong to write him off as simply another royal wannabe.

Bill knew. Kiamos had his blind spot, but he was a brilliant financier.
From this floating control center, he managed a pool of funds with more
than a billion dollars in assets, built via a strategy of risky, highly
leveraged speculations. He was also, surprisingly, a philanthropist,
contributing many millions to such noble causes as educational programs
in Central Europe and the promotion of democracy in Africa.

Financial genius that he was, Kiamos made sure he got exactly the sort
of return on his investments that he desired. Supported by his enormous,
carefully placed gifts, he'd begun to make a reputation for himself as a
minister without portfolio, befriending, supporting, and advising
powerful heads of state with keen political savvy.

The two men had been introduced by a mutual acquaintance and had taken
to each other, each recognizing in the other a pragmatism and an
unemotional appraisal of the world's realities that were as unique as
they were refreshing.

"People think of me as selfless," Kiamos had told Bill during their
first meeting. "But I'm really quite self-centered."

Bill, understanding precisely what the man was saying, had nodded,
smiled, and filed away the illuminating remark for future contemplation.

Now he was ready to put it to use.

The conversation was desultory as the threesome moved from cocktails
through a superb dinner, served in the walnut-paneled dining room.

Afterwards, Kiamos's nubile companion was sent below, and the two men
retired to the overly decorated salon. There they sat over cigars and
brandy, discussing the proposal that had brought Bill to Curacao.

".. . not just a humanitarian gesture," Bill was saying, "but a
self-serving one, as well. For the good of all, and for the good of
oneself. An unbeatable combination for realists like ourselves."

Kiamos was smiling and nodding, his small eyes glittering in the soft
light of the lamps that had been turned on as the sun dropped into the
sea. "I am intrigued," he said, drawing on his Macanudo. He exhaled
luxuriously and reached for his brandy. "But such a large donation ...

I must be sure I am getting value for my money. Political value, if you
understand me."

"Of course. That's why I came to you, sir. It's good for you, and it's
good for the work of the IMA."

Kiamos studied the doctor over the rim of his crystal snifter. "I like
you. Dr. Miller. But you puzzle me. I ask myself, does he really believe
all those fine words he speaks about working for the common good, for
the good of his fellow man?"

"Of course I do," Bill said stoutly. "Don't you?"

Kiamos stared at Bill for a moment, then laughed heartily. "Oh, yes,
assuredly I do. Oh, yes. I love the poor, the sick, the downtrodden.

Just keep them far away from me." Still chuckling, he levered himself
erect. "No, stay and finish your brandy, doctor." He waved Bill back
into his seat. "I have arranged some after-dinner entertainment. You
will pardon me if I do not join you; the Japanese exchange opens in
twenty minutes." He traversed the room, moving lightly for such a large
man, then turned back. "You will have your answer before you leave," he
promised. Music began to pulse from hidden speakers. "Ah, the
entertainment has arrived. I am certain you will enjoy it."

He slipped from the salon.

Moments later, a scantily clothed woman appeared.

She came toward him, smiling suggestively as she gently pressed him back
against the cushions. Bill frowned as he watched the stripper undulate
above him.

Money, not sex, was what he'd come here for, he thought impatiently.

All he wanted was a quick answer from Kiamos and a night flight back to
New York.

The woman leaned down and placed his hands on her pendulous breasts,
then squatted lower, brushing his face with the filmy scarf that barely
covered her crotch. She was plump and swarthy, not a type he usually
found attractive, but he felt himself coming erect in spite of himself.

The woman whipped the scarf away, and performed some gyrations of a
particularly lewd nature that left her spread out in front of him like a
plate of hors d'oeuvres. She held out her arms to him, but despite his
physical reaction to her nudity, Bill felt no desire to participate.

The woman hesitated, then rose, swiftly collected her garments, and left
the salon. The music died. Bill drank off the last of his brandy. Maybe
now Kiamos would get on with it. He set the glass on a side table and
gazed out of the window toward the ocean, its dark surface alive with
green phosphorescence.

A faint sound turned him back around. A different woman stood before
him--a girl, really, and one much more to his taste. She was completely
naked, her pale skin untouched by the sun. He'd never seen a woman of
such total whiteness; even her small patch of pubic hair was a
silvery-white, matching the mane that hung nearly to the rosy tips of
her breasts. She held out her hand, smiling faintly, her eyes the color
of seaglass.

So what if Carl Anders dislikes me? Lucy thought as she stowed her
clothes in the staging room locker.

I'm not crazy about him, either, but that doesn't mean we can't have a
reasonable working relationship. It's not as though we actually work on
the same project.

Besides, Bill Miller had thought so little of Carl's criticism of her,
he'd gone ahead and offered her a plum of a job. Not that she would
seriously consider taking such a job, but it certainly was a vote of
confidence from the man who would actually be paying her salary.

Still, Carl's attitude didn't make for a healthy working environment.

Perhaps she should talk to him, clear the air.

She checked her spacesuit carefully for tears in the fabric, then suited
up as usual and went through the various airlocks leading into Biosafety
Level Four, plugging and unplugging and replugging her air hose.

It still amazed her that the IMA had been able to construct such an
expensive and intricate containment center with private money.

Quiet today, she thought as she entered the empty lab. There were
usually two or three other scientists seated at the biosafety cabinets,
large work areas closed on five of their six sides in order to contain
any aerosols created in the experimentation process.

Today she saw no one.

From a storage cabinet she selected a twenty-four-well panel: a shallow
lucite square about twelve inches on a side, with twenty-four small,
circular depressions built into it. Then she went to the large,
clear-fronted, commercial refrigerator and took out a tube of Vero clone
E-6 cells, the culture medium her tests had shown worked the best for
growing both fresh viral isolates and laboratory-passaged strains of the
peruvia virus. Vero was made from the kidney cells of African green
monkeys, and although peruvia was South American in origin, it seemed to
prefer this medium.

She took the panel and the Vero to her work area, then returned to the
refrigerated storage unit and gently removed a sealed tube of cold pink
liquid: peruvia.

The spacesuit's double-glove system destroyed contact sensitivity, so
slow, careful movements were vital. Inside her helmet, the sound of her
breathing seemed to grow louder as she stood for a moment, grasping the
tube of lethal pathogen and centering herself. She carried the peruvia
isolate carefully across to her workstation and set it into the plastic
test tube holder.

Then she took up a pipette and began filling the wells with Vero.

Behind her, a tall spacesuited figure came through the Level Four
airlock and stood watching her.

She finished filling the wells, then began the delicate task of
infecting each well of culture medium with the peruvia isolate. She
worked slowly, carefully. During this process, the virus was out in the
open: in the syringe she was using to inject the pathogen into each
well, and in the circles of cell culture she'd already infected with it.

Behind her, the figure moved closer, the shuffle of his boots against
the tile floor blanketed by the roar of air in her helmet. He was behind
her chair now, eyes wide, shouting into his helmet. But Lucy heard
nothing. Suddenly his arms shot out, one hand grabbing for her air hose
coupling, the other knocking against the arm that held the syringe of
peruvia as he shoved her sideways in her chair.

Lucy screamed silently as she fell sideways, seeing the tip of the
syringe, wet and deadly, flash across the surface of her glove. God,
don't let it be torn, she prayed, but she could see the tiny tear line
the needle had opened. What was happening? The syringe felt from her
fingers as she pulled herself erect, scrabbling for the sealing tape
that hung from her suit, looking around for her attacker, thinking. If
it didn't get past the outer glove, I'm okay. As long as it didn't get
past the outer glove.

Suddenly she couldn't breathe, and saw the air hose loose in his hands
and thought, I've got to get out of here. She backed away from the
silently shouting figure coming toward her again, his face clear beneath
his faceplate as she gasped for breath: Carl Anders.

She ran through the lab toward the decon airlock and slammed through it
with Anders close behind.

The stale air of her helmet made her gag, but there was no time to plug
her suit into one of the dangling hoses, not yet. She grabbed the metal
emergency lockbar and tugged it down into place. The movement used up
the last of her oxygen reserves, and she felt herself starting to black
out as she reached for a hose and fumbled with the coupling.

She leaned against the airlock wall, greedily sucking in the cool, dry
air that flooded into her helmet, then reached over and punched the
button that activated the decontamination spray.

Standing under the chemical shower, she decon'd the ripped outer glove,
praying the inner-glove was still intact.

When the seven minute decon cycle was over, she peeled off both gloves
and inspected the thin inner one carefully. It looked okay, but that
didn't mean much.

She inflated it, holding it under the sidestream of water used for
rinsing off their suits prior to deconing them.

Then she turned off the water and studied the glove carefully for leaks.
Nothing. No holes. She sagged against the steel wall, weak with relief,
then pulled back the emergency lock and went quickly out by the opposite
door, slamming it shut behind her, hoping that Carl wouldn't dare to
break decon by following her. In the locker room, she tore off her suit
and threw on her clothes, then ran out into the main lab. In the hallway
outside the entrance to the Level Four lab, she stopped and leaned
against the wall as the enormity of what had happened hit her. He'd
tried to inject her with peruvia. And he'd come damn close to
succeeding.

Several lab workers looked up questioningly as Lucy hurried across the
open-bench work area to her lab, but she just kept moving. She had her
coat on and was reaching for her purse when her beeper went off.

Shit.

She checked the recall number: one of the intensive care units. She
kicked the door shut and began dialing furiously, looking at her watch.

Four and a half minutes until Anders was out of decon. After several
tries, the page operator put her through to the attending. She barked
medication changes and a promise to stop by on her way uptown.

Less than two minutes left .. . She banged down the phone and headed out
to the elevator.

One minute to go ... Come on, come on. Lucy jabbed at the elevator call
button. Get me out of here.

The elevator arrived, its door sliding open. Anders would be out now,
and looking for her. She hurried inside and punched the Close button,
watching in relief as the door began to slide closed. Then a hand was
thrust inside and the door sprang back, revealing a furious Carl Anders.

"You stupid, stupid woman," he shouted, his hand pressing against the
door, holding it open. "How did you ever get Level Four clearance?"

"You tried to kill me. Get out of my way." Lucy forced her way past him
into the reception area, but he grabbed her shoulders and spun her back
around to face him.

"What the hell are you talking about?" he shouted.

"I saved your fucking life."

"You came up behind me and knocked me over and stuck the peruvia syringe
into my glove."

"I was reaching for your damn air coupling. The hose was ripping it out
of your suit." Carl snorted derisively. "You stuck yourself, doctor."

"The suit coupling was separating?" Lucy stared at Carl in disbelief.

"Why didn't you say something, let me know you were standing there
instead of creeping up behind me?"

"I did, dammit. I shouted to you over and over, but you ignored me."

"I didn't hear you."

"Your helmet receiver must be faulty. Or my mike." They were both calmer
now. "The syringe actually tore your glove?"

"Just the outer one. The inner one was good." She went to a nearby chair
and collapsed into it.

Anders followed. "Didn't you check your suit before you put it on?"

he demanded, standing over her.

"Of course I did," Lucy shot back. But there could have been a hidden
tear on the underside, a weak spot, she thought. Attaching and
unattaching the hoses on my way in could have weakened it further  ...
"If you don't believe what I'm telling you, check the damn suit
yourself. Go on. See for yourself." Carl stomped off toward the hall,
then turned back. "You actually thought I was trying to kill you?"

Lucy felt herself flushing; the idea seemed ridiculous, now. "I don't
know ... I didn't think anyone else was in there, and then suddenly you
were behind me, knocking me sideways, grabbing my--"

"I was trying to get at the coupling."

"I didn't know," Lucy said quietly. "I thought youafter what you said to
Bill about me, I guess I thought"

"that I would commit murder in order to get you out of my lab? Hardly."
He glowered at her. "I don't like you. Dr. Nash. I don't think women
belong in this kind of work, and to my mind, what happened in there just
now is proof of it.

Well, I've made my objections known, and I've been overruled." He
paused. "But I'm a professional scientist, Lucy. I am not a murderer."

"I'm sorry I misunderstood what you were doing."

"Apology accepted." He stood there for a moment, then came over to her
chair. He leaned down so that their faces were level. "On the other
hand," he told her softly, his eyes boring into hers, "if I were trying
to stab you with a syringe loaded with lethal pathogen, I wouldn't
miss."

Bill thought he would explode as the girl with the seaglass eyes ran her
tongue along the inside of his upper thigh. She'd been teasing him like
this for hours, or so it seemed, bringing him nearly to the point of
climax, then back down again with no release. His body was slick with
sweat, his breathing labored. He lunged for her, ready to finish things,
but she rolled away, laughing. Hell with this, he thought, and threw
himself on top of her, parting her legs roughly and ramming himself
inside. She cried out, but he barely heard her, thrusting deeperwhat the
hell was that?

He stopped, heart racing, then slowly withdrew. The girl's eyes were
laughing. He reached inside her and withdrew a small, folded paper.

The girl rolled him over on his back and mounted him, sucking him deep
inside her body, holding him tight as a fist, her hips moving like
pistons. "Read it," she breathed, riding him. He gasped, thrusting
upward as he unfolded the soggy document with trembling fingers, his
unfocused eyes straining. She bore down on him and he cried out and
emptied himself into her, realizing at the moment of climax that he was
holding a check, signed by Kiamos, for thirty million dollars.

Some twenty minutes later, the damp check safely locked inside his
attache case. Bill reboarded his waiting Lear. A faint smile hovered on
his lips as he collapsed heavily into a plush leather seat. The small
jet ran down the runway and leapt into the warm, moist air.

"A movie, sir? Some music? Refreshments?"

"I think I'll try and catch a few winks," he told the steward. "Wait;
I'll have something to drink first. Perrier and lime, please. Make it a
tall one."

"Right away. Dr. Miller. And shall I dim the lights, or do you want to
read for a while? May I bring you a magazine?"

"No, I doubt I could concentrate at the moment."

He smiled up at the steward. "Lower the lights, by all means."

The steward went aft to the small, well-equipped galley and Bill gazed
idly out at the night sky through which they were climbing. As the plane
banked to the right, a necklace of islands appeared in the window, their
lights like diamonds against the black breast of the sea.

The steward appeared at his elbow, holding a tray.

He set a filled, lime-rimmed glass on the low table, then added
reinforcements in the form of a small ice bucket, a plate of lime
slices, and a large green bottle.

Bill gulped half of his drink immediately and topped it up.

"Fund-raising must be thirsty work," the steward observed, smiling.

Bill took another long pull at his drink, then settled back into the
wide, soft seat. "You have no idea," he told the steward, glancing over
at him through half-closed eyes. "You really have no idea."

Chapter Thirteen.

"I won't let him scare me away from the lab," -Lucy repeated. "I just
won't."

"I don't know. Luce," Rick said doubtfully. "The man's unstable. Who
knows what he's capable of?"

"I checked my suit," she said impatiently. "He was right. The coupling
was loose. Another tug and it would have separated."

"Well, maybe he was the one who loosened it."

"Then why would he go into the lab after me? No, if he'd done it, he'd
have stayed far away and let the damn thing come apart when I was alone.
An accident.

They happen."

"How about what he said to you afterward? You don't consider that a
threat?"

"I did at the time, but now ... I think he was simply trying to scare
me. He's quite open about wanting me out, and considering the way he
feels about women, intimidation would be his weapon of choice. Well,
screw him." Lucy slammed her coffee mug down on the work surface.

"I'm staying."

"Hey, I'm trying to save the world, here," Rick protested, mopping
coffee from a pile of printouts.

"You're not going back in there today, are you?"

"Not hardly." She picked up a coffee-stained paper.

"Sorry about this."

"A duplicate printout. No harm done." She scanned the page idly.

"You still working on the bacteriophage project?"

"Yeah, but Anders asked me to do some protein analyses for him."

"This the chromatography study?"

"It was." He took the soggy paper from her hand.

"Any chance of seeing you this evening?"

"I need to stop at the hospital on the way home, and I don't know how
long it'll take. Can I call you later?"

"Sure."

Lucy started out, then stopped in the doorway.

"Hey, we have a visitor. Bill's here."

"Miller?"

"Yes, he just went into Carl's office. I bet he's getting an earful."

"Hell with that." Rick went and put a supportive arm around her
shoulders. "Everyone knows Carl broke protocol by coming up behind you
the way he did. When he realized you couldn't hear him, he should have
gone around in front of you, gotten your attention, pointed to the
coupling. What he did was incredibly dangerous. We all know that what
happened in there was his fault, not yours."

"Thanks." She kissed him lightly on the cheek.

"Okay, I'm off."

" ...  damn dangerous .. . told you women were too .. ." Lucy paused
outside Carl's office, her coat over her shoulders. Carl was trashing
her, of course.

She looked around; the corridor was empty. She went up to the closed
door and listened.

".. . been through all that," she heard Bill murmur.

".. . want to know about .. ." He spoke more quietly than Carl had done,
and Anders's reply was equally moderated.

" ...  simian hemorrhagic .. . fatal .. . not the same as ... unless ..
."

Was Anders doing vivo studies on SHF in that locked animal lab? If only
she could make out more than one word in ten.. ..

".. . new strain?" she heard Bill ask.

".. . completely effective," Anders replied, "but only in vivo testing
will--"

"They say eavesdroppers never hear well of themselves."

Lucy swung around. Rick stood behind her, papers in hand. "Carl wanted
these molecular weights before five. A timely interruption might be in
order."

He gave her a conspiratorial wink.

"It doesn't matter--" Lucy began, but Rick was already knocking on the
door. The murmuring within ceased. The door opened.

"Yes?" Anders scowled at Lucy, then at Rick.

"What is it?"

"I have those molecular weights you wanted," Rick said. "Is this a bad
time?"

Bill Miller appeared in the doorway. "We can finish this later," he told
Carl. His eyes went to Lucy and he smiled. "Do you have a minute for
me?"

"I'm on my way to the hospital, but--sure. Bill."

Rick went into Carl's office and Bill followed Lucy back to her lab,
saying, "I won't keep you long."

Lucy seated herself in her work chair and Bill perched on a nearby
stool. "I was horrified when Carl told me what happened today on Level
Four," he said, his face serious. "I've told Carl he was completely
wrong in the way he handled the situation. Dangerously wrong. We all owe
you an enormous apology."

He paused. "Apology hardly seems enough, considering what happened in
there."

"I was partly at fault," Lucy said. "I should have checked the suit more
carefully."

"That's very generous of you," Bill said, "since you could probably slap
the IMA with a lawsuit. And win." He smiled, but his eyes were worried.

"I'm not going to sue you, Bill."

"Glad to hear it. The IMA's taken enough hits lately, what with
Jean-Pierre .. ." He stood. "You're a real team player, Lucy. I
appreciate that. And I hope this incident won't sour you on the job
offer."

"It won't make a difference one way or the other," Lucy assured him
truthfully.

The level of background noise had been rising during their conversation,
and now Carl's voice rang out through the open work area.

".. . can't possibly be right, Hollander. Not anywhere near the
estimates.

How in hell--"

"What's going on out there?" Bill asked, following Lucy into the
workbench area. Researchers were casting surreptitious looks toward
Carl's office, embarrassed for Rick, yet curious.

"You must have set the field wrong," Anders was insisting loudly. He
burst from his office, Rick in tow.

"Show me how you set the damn chromatograph."

They disappeared into Rick's lab, and for a moment there was silence.

Then Carl's angry voice burst out again. "The current was too strong.

I knew it. Let me review Chromatography 101 for you, Hollander. You put
the protein gel suspension in the chromatograph, and you turn on the
electronic field. It's polarized, right? So the proteins migrate from
one pole to the other. They migrate at different rates, which is why
we're able to separate one from another, and measure them. We okay so
far?"

Lucy and Bill looked at each other in growing discomfiture.

"Now, if the electronic field is too strong," Anders boomed, "the
proteins migrate too fast. So when you go to cut the gel, you end up
cutting the proteins in the wrong damn place and the weights are all
wrong."

They couldn't hear Rick's murmured response, but Carl's answer was loud
and clear. "Simple mistake?

"Carl was lucky you didn't sock him one," he told Rick as they settled
themselves at the bar of the White Horse Tavern. "I would have." He
waved the harman over, and they ordered beers. "You know this place?"

Rick shook his head. "I'm a Californian, remember?"

"It's an institution; at least, it was. A lot of us spent a fair part of
our youth here in this bar, arguing about what was wrong with society
and how to fix it." He sipped his beer, remembering. "We were going to
change the world." He sighed. "Today, those kids are advertising
executives, corporate attorneys.. .. Youthful ideals don't last, I'm
afraid."

"Oh, I don't know," Rick said. "You seem to be doing your part."

Bill smiled sadly. "I suppose so. Although it doesn't seem like nearly
enough." He reached down the bar for a bowl of pretzels. "You say you
believe in the mission of the IMA," he said, passing the bowl to Rick.
"Does that mean you've hung on to a little of your own youthful
idealism?"

"I don't know that I'd put it quite like that," Rick answered. "The IMA
fills an important need, and it makes me feel good to be a part of it.
But if I hadn't been promised a chance to do my own research in a
state-of-the-art lab, I wouldn't have come."

"Enlightened self-interest, eh?" Bill smiled. "I approve of that."

He drank some beer. "I wanted to talk to you, away from the lab, because
what I have to say is somewhat .. . delicate."

Shit, Rick thought, studying his glass. He does know about Renee.

"It's about Lucy." Rick turned to stare at Bill in surprise. "I
understand you two have become .. .

close. And I hope you won't misinterpret what I'm going to say." He
paused. "You know about her affair with Jean-Pierre? All that?" Rick
nodded. "Well, I'm very uncomfortable with her continuing to investigate
his death."

"Why?" Rick asked. "I'd have thought it was in the interest of the IMA
to clear his name."

"Sure, if it is cleared."

"You don't think it will be?"

"Frankly, no. And I've told Lucy so. I've also told her it could be
dangerous for her. We're talking drug running."

"You seem pretty sure he's guilty."

"Who knows what he was involved in?" Bill said tiredly. "The point is,
Dither's arrest and suicide has had a serious impact on contributions to
the IMA.

And without money, the IMA can't function. Fortunately the public has a
short memory, and contributions are on the rise again. But if Lucy does
manage to clear his name, she's going to want to announce it, make a big
thing of it, which will bring the whole story back into the news again.
And you know how people are. They won't really take in the fact that he
was cleared, or else they won't believe it. They'll just think: "IMA,
dope smuggling."

" He shook his head, sighed deeply and reached for a pretzel. "And
that's the up side. If, on the other hand, she finds evidence of his
guilt, and that story gets out--hell, the man was carrying heroin..

.

. You see what I'm driving at?"

"You want me to use whatever influence I have with Lucy to make her
stop?" The idea seemed to amuse Rick. "Forget it." He broke a pretzel in
half.

"Besides, she's only ever mentioned it once. Are you sure she's still
pursuing it?"

"She did tell me she was dropping it at one point, but it seems she
hasn't." Bill drank some beer. "I just want you to keep your eyes and
ears open. The drug arrest was bad for us, really bad. We'll need to do
some serious damage control if any other unsavory information comes to
light. All I'm asking is that you keep me in the picture; make sure I
know whatever she knows. For the good of the IMA. Do you think you could
do that?"

"No, I don't think I could."

"You said that working for the IMA made you feel good."

"Working, not spying."

"Oh, let's not get overly dramatic. I'm simply asking you to help me
protect the IMA's reputation, and its fund-raising ability. All I want
is a little advance notice about anything that could turn around and
bite us in the ass." He clapped Rick on the shoulder. "Work with me on
this. Rick. Carl can't stay in his present position much longer.

And I know how to reward loyalty."

"I don't want to hurt Lucy."

"Hurt her? Just the opposite. I don't think she has any idea what she
could be getting into. We can help protect her if the going gets rough."

"I suppose that makes sense," Rick said slowly.

"She's got this female-macho thing; wants to brazen everything out on
her own. I bet she didn't even tell you what Carl said to her. After he
explained he'd been trying to save her life, that is."

"What did he say?" Bill frowned.

"Something like, "If I'd wanted to kill you, I wouldn't have missed."

"

"Jesus." Bill's face registered his shock. "He really said that?"

"Afraid so. Uh, I'd rather you didn't mention it to Lucy. She'll know I
told you."

"If you say so," Bill agreed reluctantly. "But I'm sure as hell going to
talk to Carl about it." He hesitated.

"What was Lucy's reaction?"

"She thinks Carl was just trying to scare her off.

She refuses to let him, of course."

"Of course." Bill smiled. "Any woman who's comfortable in a Biosafety
Level Four lab obviously doesn't scare easily. Which is precisely why
you and I have to work together. To protect her from herself."

"Well, when you put it like that .. ."

"I knew I could count on you." Bill reached for his wallet and slapped
some bills down on the bar.

"Renee assures me you're dedicated to our work."

Rick flushed, but Miller's expression was bland. "I'm rather fond of the
countess myself," Bill said, "but there was never anything serious
between us. Ah, Renee, such a free spirit. I hope you used a condom."

He stood and retrieved his coat. "Stay and finish your beer. Soak up
some atmosphere."

"Right."

"Oh, and you might consider ending whatever it is you're having with
Renee, preferably by phone. You wouldn't want anything to come between
you and Lucy. Especially now." He stood and retrieved his topcoat.

"Keep me posted." At the door he turned back to give Rick a thumbs-up
before disappearing into the gathering dusk.

Rick's face was grim as he drained his glass. "Get you anything else?"

the harman asked.

Rick shook his head. "You have a phone I can use?"

"Back there. Next to the John."

The bar was starting to fill up. Rick made his way through the gathering
crowd, reaching in his pocket for change. Situated between the men's
room and the kitchen, the pay phone was a little public for his purpose.

But the short hallway was empty at the moment, and the noise from the
kitchen would cover his voice.

In the next few minutes, he held two brief conversations.

Neither of them was with Renee.

On the loading dock beneath the colorful King Banana sign, three men
were loading a white truck bearingthe wholesaler's trademark
illustration of a dancing banana, a jeweled crown perched tipsily over
one anthropomorphic eye. Two others were carting boxes of fruit out of
the warehouse and stacking them on the cement platform. No one looked up
as Bill Miller edged his way past the loading crew and over to a
battered door, where he rang the bell and was promptly admitted. King
Banana did good business, and visits from jobbers were common, even at
this hour.

But having climbed the steep and dirty stairs. Bill didn't stop at the
frosted-glass door of the wholesaler's office. Instead, he continued
along the grimy corridor to the men's room. Choosing the last of the
three empty stalls, he locked the door, then bent down and counted five
tiles in from the right-hand wall along the bottom row. He pushed one
side of the sixth tile and it swiveled back to reveal an odd-shaped
keyhole.

He inserted a key and twisted, and a section of tile some four feet high
and two feet across opened silently inward. He crouched and stepped
through into semidarkness, then reached back and flicked the lock on the
stall door. By the time the stall door had swung open, the section of
tile had locked seamlessly into place again.

The hallway in which Bill found himself was narrow, cold, and badly lit.
He followed it around a right-angle turn and up to a door set flush into
the rough cinderblock wall. He inserted his key again and pushed.

Inside the small conference room, faces looked up at the sound of the
alarm. Slowly, a section of the far wall swung outward and Bill entered,
accompanied by cold, stale air.

"Everybody here?" he asked. "Then let's get started."

Lucy poured herself a cup of old coffee and collapsed into a chair in
the doctors' lounge. After half an hour with the attending and his AIDS
readmit, she'd left a message on Rick's answering machine saying it was
going to be a long night. The coffee was disgusting, but she drank it
anyway, needing its caffeine.

God, she was tired.

I'm stretching myself too thin, she thought. If the IMA work were Level
One, even Level Two .. . But the stress of Level Four was simply too
great to add to her already full load. She gave up the coffee and
deep-sired the paper cup. No, it wasn't the stress of Level Four, she
decided, as much as the stress of Carl Anders.

Why did he dislike her so much that he'd want to frighten her away?

Okay, he didn't like women. But he was no youngster; surely he'd dealt
with women scientists before. And Bill Miller was Carl's boss. Bill
liked women, supported them. Was Bill aware of how pathological Carl's
reactions were?

She thought back to her dinner with Bill and smiled.

He was a real throwback to the sixties, she thought, a man who still
fancied himself a sort of armchair revolutionary. A doctor who'd never
lost his youthful commitment to healing the world, aiding the underdog.

Concerned. Idealistic.

And perhaps just a little naive?

"Dr. Nash, to I.C.U Two North. Stat. Dr. Nash--" Lucy rose quickly and
headed out into the corridor.

How well did Bill Miller really know Carl Anders?

she wondered as she ran for the stairs. To what degree did Carl actually
share Bill's theories of social reform?

And could there be some reason beyond the obvious that Carl Anders
wanted her out of Level Four?

" ...  six million dollars. And the Lewis Stanton Williams Foundation
has approved a contribution of three million. But the big news is,
Alexander Kiamos has given me a check for thirty million for our work."

Bill smiled at the people assembled around the rough wooden table. "As
you can see, the IMA has fully recovered from the, uh, problem of Dr.
Dither's arrest."

"Not from where I sit." The speaker, a woman wearing a navy pea jacket,
jeans, and Timberland boots, slid a financial printout across the table
to him.

"As you can see from the past three months' figures, my operation is
still feeling the effects. My boss is concerned."

"Please reassure him. I'm sure the incident will soon be forgotten, and
things will be as they were before."

"As long as that woman doctor of yours doesn't remind everybody."

"No risk of that, I assure you. She's being tightly monitored. And other
steps are being taken, as well.

Please inform your boss of that." The woman rose, and Bill stood, too.

"Thank you for joining us today.

Please give my respects to Mr. Tortoriello."

The woman nodded and went to the far wall, where she waited for Bill to
work his magic with the hidden panel. When she was gone and the wall had
swung back into place. Bill turned to the group around the table.

"Now we can speak more freely," he said.

"You're sure she doesn't know?" inquired a portly, middle-aged man with
thinning blond hair, his eyes flicking toward the hidden panel.

"Or her, uh, boss?"

"Absolutely not," Bill answered. "Unless someone here has been
careless." He eyed them sternly. "As you were, Carl." Carl began to
protest angrily, but Bill cut him off with a wave of his hand.

"What's this?" the blond man asked, his eyes worried.

"What happened?"

"Nothing that need concern you," Bill said quickly.

"It's been dealt with. But it's an example of the need to maintain tight
security in everything we do." He began collecting the various papers on
the table in front of him, ignoring Carl, who was scowling across the
table at him.

"Are you sure it was wise to involve Tortoriello?" asked a short,
gray-haired man. "I mean, the results have been phenomenal .. .

until Dither, of course.

Still--" Bill stopped, put his palms on the table, and leaned across
toward the questioner. "The results are all that count, Oliver. Never
forget that." He stood up, addressing his words to the meeting at large.
"Working behind the scenes, my friends, we're performing a most
important service: the creation of a new, a better world order. If we
have to get our hands dirty doing it, so what?"

The blond man nodded enthusiastically. "It's the end that counts," he
agreed. "The means are unimportant."

"Exactly. As every surgeon knows," Bill continued, stuffing papers into
his leather attache case, "sometimes you need to cut deep in order to
save the patient.

That is what I am prepared to do. That is what we must all be prepared
to do." He snapped the case closed. "I believe we're finished here.

You'll be called with the date of the next meeting."

He keyed the hidden wall panel open. "Carl? A word, please." He drew the
scientist aside as the others filed from the room. "Ease up on
Hollander. I don't want to lose him."

"He made a stupid mistake," Carl said impatiently.

"Dr. Nash, too," Bill continued, ignoring Carl's interjection.

"I don't want to lose either of them.

Understand?"

Carl shrugged. "You're the boss."

"That's right. Please don't forget it. You can go now." Carl departed,
his face sullen.

When the wall was back in place and the room was empty. Bill went to a
small closet. Donning the lab coat that hung ready, he transferred a
small package from his attache case to his pocket, then slung his
topcoat around his shoulders.

Crossing the room again, he opened the wall panel and stepped into the
catacomblike passageway, nervously fingering the vials in his pocket.

Chapter Fourteen.

"So then the surgeon looks up. He says, "There's a damn duck!" and he
aims carefully and fires once, and the duck falls down dead.

Then the internist looks up and says, "Hmm, duck .. .

rule out eagle, rule out sparrow .. ."

" Lucy smiled at Hank's retelling of the old "doctors on a duck hunt"
joke. Although everyone around the banquet table must have heard it a
thousand times, Hank's version, complete with gestures, was very
entertaining.

"Suddenly the ER guy starts blasting away," Hank continued." "Boom!

Boom! I got it, I got it! What the hell was it?"

" Lucy joined in the general laughter, enjoying herself.

One of the nicest things about high-profile medical conferences like
these, she thought, was the chance to socialize with others in the field
of infectious diseases; to see people she'd lost contact with, and meet
doctors whose names were more familiar to her than their faces.

Ten days had passed since her run-in with Carl.

During that time, she'd made only one visit to the IMA Level Four lab,
having had to cancel this week's session because of the conference.

Although she'd approached Level Four with a certain amount of
trepidation the previous Thursday, she'd soon lost herself in the work,
proceeding without interference from a rather subdued Carl Anders. In
fact, he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her, and treated her with
formal respect when they were forced to converse. Rick had told her the
lab chief had apologized to him for his outburst, and as she observed
them together, chatting easily over some printouts, she thought Rick was
too forgiving. But she managed to keep herself from saying so. She was
only a volunteer, after all, with a medical career elsewhere. She could
walk out any time she liked, but Rick had given up a good position in
California to take this job with the IMA. It was different for him.

"I enjoyed your paper this afternoon," said the man on her right, a
young doctor from Houston. "I don't do much AIDS work myself, but it
helps to know what to look for."

"I'm glad it was useful," Lucy said, beaming. Her presentation that
morning on manifestations of opportunistic infections in AIDS patients
had been very well received, and the experience of speaking before such
an august group had been exhilarating.

"So you're no longer at the CDC," said Barbara Coley, a virologist from
Los Angeles. Though separated in age by some twelve years, the two women
had hit it off at the previous year's conference and had exchanged
several letters since. "How are you enjoying clinical work?"

"Very much," Lucy replied. The waiters began clearing away the remains
of the baked chicken and asparagus.

"You don't miss the lab?"

"Actually, I'm doing some part-time work at the IMA's lab.

International Medical Aid, the organization that sends volunteer medical
people around the world," she added, seeing Barbara's baffled
expression.

"I've heard of them," Barbara said, the light dawning.. "Didn't they
send a team to India for that cholera outbreak last year?"

"Before my time," Lucy replied. "But it sounds like them."

"So what kind of research are you doing?"

"I'm working with a new filovirus we found in Peru."

"But ... I thought you'd left the CDC." Barbara looked at her
questioningly.

"I did. The IMA has a small Biosafety Level Four containment lab."

"No kidding?" The older woman looked impressed.

"They must do one helluva job of fundraising."

Lucy smiled. "They do."

"So, they doing anything besides filovirus work?"

"Oh yes, they also have Level One and Two facilities.

They're doing some bacteriophage work, and-actually, you may know one of
our research associates.

He's from California, too. Rick Hollander."

"The name sounds familiar.. .. Hey, you don't mean Richard Hollander.
From Stanford?"

"Yes. You know him?"

"Mostly by reputation. I only met him once."

Lucy smiled. "Good or bad?"

"Oh, definitely good. Highly respected in his field, and rather a hunk,
as I recall."

"That's him," Lucy said.

"They must have been nuts at Stanford, letting him go. He was there for
years; ran his own show. Grad students would kill to work with him."

"Really?" Lucy frowned, recalling the botched chromatography study.

"I didn't realize he was that senior."

"God, yes," Barbara said. "You're really lucky to have him. Have you met
his wife?"

"What?" Lucy froze.

"His wife. Dotty. Not her name, her nature. Name's Eleanor. She's a
trip."

"He, uh, never mentioned ... I don't think she came east with him," Lucy
managed to reply.

"Probably divorced by now," Barbara said.

"Wouldn't surprise me. There were always stories."

So that was the family business Rick had to take care of in California
at Christmas. Some great judge of character you are, Lucy berated
herself; first a drug dealer, now a married philanderer.

"You working together?" Barbara asked.

"No .. . we're just, uh, friends."

"Well, you'll learn a lot from him. And if he is divorced, you should go
for it. Although he may be kind of tall for you,"

"He's only five or six inches taller than I am," Lucy said, frowning.

"Is that all? I got the impression he was taller."

Barbara shrugged. "Well, I only met him once. Ah, peach melba, my
favorite."

Somehow Lucy managed to get through the dessert and coffee, and even
joined the group at the bar for a while afterward. But once in her room,
she paced from chair to window to bed, veering between anger and
despondency as she sorted out what Barbara had told her and compared it
to what she knew, or thought she knew, about Rick. Any way she looked at
it, she saw holes big enough to drive a truck through.

She slept badly and woke before her wake-up call, running over it all
again while she showered and dressed. He didn't wear a wedding ring, but
that didn't mean anything. And come to think of it, he rarely spoke
about his past. On the other hand, while the California trip at
Christmas could have been to see his wife, it could also have been to
see an attorney, or to pack up his things. Barbara seemed to think the
marriage was rocky; it was perfectly possible that he was now divorced.
Innocent until proven guilty, she reminded herself. Ask him. Give him a
chance to explain.

This is a man you care for. You've shared his bed, for godsake. But
don't do it from a hotel phone; talk to him in person.

Rick in person. That was another thing that was bothering her. How could
so senior a scientist as Rick was supposed to be, screw up a
chromatography setting and then not notice that his protein weights were
off? And what was that business about him being too tall for her?

It was true that she was short, but Rick wasn't particularly tall.

At least this Rick Hollander wasn't.

She picked up the phone and dialed Palo Alto directory assistance, then
hesitated. This is crazy, she thought. Anyone can make a lab mistake.

She herself had missed the loose air hose connector on her suit.

And Barbara could be a lousy judge of height. She replaced the receiver,
grabbed her conference folder, and headed for the eight a.m. breakfast
meeting, smiling at her overactive imagination.

"I said this was the last time, and I meant it," he insisted. Renee
smiled her lazy smile and began unbuttoning the shirt he had just
buttoned. "Quit it," he said, annoyed. He grabbed her hands, but she
pulled free and started on his fly. "Damn it, Renee."

"Be a good boy. Rick, or I'll tell your boss about.

us."

"He already knows," Rick said, freeing himself and retreating across the
room. "Is that how you two get your kicks? Screwing other people and
telling each other about it?"

"What a nasty little boy you are, caro. I have already told you: Bill
Miller is nothing to me."

"Yes, and I'm nothing to you, and Count depalma is nothing to you.

We're all just toys."

"Do you want to be something more?" Renee looked surprised.

"God, no."

"Ah, that is all right then. So I will be away until Monday, but on
Monday night--"

"No, Renee. No more. I can't."

"Of course you can," Renee told him, laughing. She went for his crotch
again, but he fended her off, then took a firm hold on her arms, spun
her around, frog-marched her over to the bed, and dumped her onto it.

"No means no," he told her with a sardonic smile.

"Bill Miller's orders."

"Bill?" Renee sat up, indignant. "Bill gives me orders?"

"Not you. Me." Rick sat on the bed some distance away from her.

"It's a business matter," he added.

"Nothing personal."

"And what does Bill's business have to do with our fucking?" Renee
demanded.

"He's asked me to keep an eye on Lucy Nash," he Said, watching her
reaction.

"Who?"

"The woman I was with at Bill's party."

"Yes, I remember her.. .." Her expression turned contemplative.

"But why should Bill want this?"

"Ask him yourself," Rick said. "The point is, we can't see each other
anymore. It's too risky." He stood and went out into the hall,
retrieving his jacket from the floor where Renee had tossed it after
practically ripping it off him when he'd arrived.

"I think I would like to meet this Lucy again," Renee said, following
him to the door. "Why don't you bring her to dinner here on Monday?

Perhaps afterward, the three of us could--"

"Not a chance," Rick said tightly. "She's not like you."

"No? Too bad for you," Renee shot back. "Perhaps I should take her to
lunch and tell her what you like me to do to you in bed. That would be
nice for you, no?"

"I wouldn't advise it," Rick said firmly, stepping out into the public
corridor. "Unless you want to deal with a very angry Bill Miller."

"You think that scares me? Bill Miller?" Renee's eyes flashed. "He is
nothing compared to--" She broke off, hesitated for a moment, and then
flung herself at Rick, her open mouth against his, her hand cupping his
groin. "You really want to leave me?" she whispered. She stroked him,
feeling him grow hard under her fingers, then suddenly released him, and
stepped back, a taunting smile on her face. "Go, then. Go."

"Compared to whom, Renee?" Rick asked softly.

But the door was already closing.

The scheduled conference events concluded at four, but Lucy had signed
up for an after-conference seminar.

So it was eight-thirty in the evening when she collected her suitcase
from the baggage carousel at Laguardia and joined the taxi line outside
the terminal.

She was exhausted, but fortunately the taxi line moved fast, and soon
she was headed into the city, the car's tires hissing on the wet road.

She paid off the cab and hurried into her apartment building, barely
noticing the shadowy figure huddled in a nearby doorway.

Although she'd hoped to sleep late, she found herself reluctantly awake
at seven-thirty the next morning, her mind buzzing. She got up,
showered, and made some coffee. Then she sat sipping it and nibbling
cinnamon toast while she Jotted down a list of the day's to-do's.

Clothes to cleaners. Buy milk & veggies.

Cash check. Call Rick.

She set down her coffee and went to the window.

Her apartment looked out over the backyards of town houses, gloriously
green in the summer, but rather bleak on this mid-winter day.

She carried the mug over to the chest on which stood the two roughly
carved Peruvian statues. Stupid things, she thought; don't know why I
keep them. But of course, she did. They were all she had left of
Jeanpierre--not her romance with him; that was history-but the puzzle
she still hadn't managed to work out.

Jean smuggled valuable art, but the experts agreed that these figures
were valueless. Jean had hinted to Beno that he was bringing in a unique
artifact. What he'd brought in was heroin. It made no sense at all.

Maybe it never would. And did it really matter?

She wandered into the kitchen for a refill, feeling stale and edgy.

Lack of sleep, she decided. And lack of closure.

She went back to the sofa, exchanging the coffee cup for her pad and
pencil. Buy stamps, she wrote.

Call Monica.

Her eyes drifted to the statues. She recalled how her father used to
tease her, calling her Tenacity Nash, saying she reminded him of a
bulldog he'd had as a child. But he'd said it with love. A career army
officer, he'd encouraged her can-do spirit, her unwillingness to give up
even when she was losing. She smiled at the memory of the old nickname.
Her father had died five years earlier of congestive heart failure, and
she missed him every day.

She got up and went over to the statues again. God, they were ugly.

Still, she might have been wrong not to show them to Beno. Jean must
have put them in his suitcase for a reason. Maybe Beno could help her
figure out what it was. She glanced at her watch: after nine. By the
time she got there, it would be around ten. Too early for a Saturday
morning visit? Nah.

She dressed quickly, pulling boots over her jeans, and a
scarlet-and-white sweater over a white turtleneck.

Rick and Monica and the stamps and veggies could all wait.

She rummaged in the kitchen for a shopping bag and dumped the statues
into it, covering them with clothes for the cleaners. Was she nuts to
keep pursuing this thing? Maybe so, she thought, but hey, we bulldogs
are like that. Grabbing her green anorak from the hall closet, she
headed out.

It was, as it had appeared from the window, a typical February day, with
the sun fighting a losing battle against the light overcast and streets
slushy with the run-off from an early thaw.

She deposited her clothes at the cleaners, then grabbed a crosstown bus
to the West Side and walked up Columbus Avenue. She noticed a bright
yellow apartment for rent sign taped to the antique store's window as
she passed. Another nearly covered the words stanislas arts beside the
door to Beno's building. He's moved out, Lucy realized with a shock.

He's gone. Why?

She went into the tiny vestibule and rang the bell repeatedly, but no
answer came. Not that she expected one. Perhaps the antiques people
would know something since they were advertising the place for rent.

"You didn't hear?" asked the lanky young salesman she approached. "It
was on the news."

"What was?"

"The old man was murdered," he replied, lowering his voice.

"Murdered? My God."

"Stabbed. The police think he was killed during a robbery attempt."

He hesitated. "I'm sorry. Were you a friend of his?"

"Just an acquaintance," Lucy replied shakily.

"When was he ... when did it happen?"

"They found him Wednesday morning. News One sent a TV crew. They
interviewed Lorenzohe's the store manager. You didn't see it?"

Lucy shook her head. "I was out of town. What happened?"

"Well, they found his body on Wednesday," the young man told her,
warming to his subject, "but he'd been dead for two days. Can you
imagine? Such bad luck."

"Bad luck?"

"He'd been gone since Christmas; on vacation, I guess. He only just came
back last weekend. If he'd stayed away a little longer  ..." the young
man sighed.

"Well, as I said, the police think it was a robbery. His place was
completely trashed. Isn't it terrible? And in this neighborhood, too."

"Yes, it's awful. Do they have any leads?"

"Not a one. He was killed with one of his own kitchen knives, poor man.
There were no fingerprints on it except his. No one in the building
remembers seeing anyone suspicious go in or out, but really, who can be
certain what they saw two days before? Are you okay?

You're shaking."

"I'm just cold. Uh, can I sit down?"

"Of course." He led her to a Victorian settee away from the window.

"It's very upsetting, isn't it? And they say the city's getting safer,"
he added, with a snort of derision. "I'm Damien, by the way."

"And I'm Lucy. Who found him?"

"Well, Ida Friedkinshe lives on the floor above was taking her dog for a
walk, and the dog started whining at Mr. Stanislas's door and straining
on his leash."

A middle-aged couple entered the store and began examining a wooden
dining table. "Is this Georgian?" the woman called.

"I'm afraid you'll have to check with Lorenzo; he's the manager," Damien
told her. "At the desk back there."

The couple wandered away and Damien sat down beside Lucy, saying, "He
thinks he's too good to work the floor, now that he's been on TV.

Well, as I was saying, it turned out that Ida's dog had been sniffing at
Mr. Stanislas's door for a couple of days, every time they went out, but
she didn't think anything of it. And then on Wednesday, the dog pulled
away from her and ran over and started pawing at the door, and it
opened, and the dog went in and started barking, so Ida went in too, and
there he was, lying on the floor, blood everywhere.. .. She came running
into the store, screaming and babbling, and Lorenzo and I could hardly
understand what she was saying, and when we finally did, we called the
police."

"How terrible for her."

"Yes. And then after Lorenzo called the police, he called News One.

Which is why he was the one who got interviewed on TV," Damien added
waspishly.

"You want a glass of water or something? You look awfully pale."

"I'm all right," Lucy said. She tried to remember whether she'd given
Beno her phone number; she didn't think so. "Did he have any relatives?"
she asked. "What will happen to his things?" It seemed callous, but she
found herself hoping he'd taken his own advice about keeping notebooks
well hidden.

"I really don't know. But if you're interested in antiques, we have some
lovely things."

"Maybe another time." Lucy rose.

"Let me give you my card. We get new pieces in all the time."

Out on the street, Lucy stood for a moment, taking it in. Robberies
happen; murders, too. It would be easy for someone who knew how, to
break in through that vestibule door, get into Beno's apartment.. .

.

She hurried back inside and found Damien. "You said the door swung open
when the dog pushed on it," she said. "Did the police say whether it had
been forced or broken?"

Damien looked surprised. "Didn't I tell you? That's the scariest part."
The middle-aged couple approached the table again, a portly young man in
tow: Lorenzo.

Damien looked over and lowered his voice. "The police think Mr.
Stanislas actually knew his murderer.

They think he opened the door himself and let him in. Creepy, isn't it?"

"Very creepy," Lucy agreed.

"I mean, protecting yourself against strangers is bad enough," Damien
said, walking her to the door. "But you'd never imagine you'd have to
protect yourself from your friends."

"No," said Lucy slowly. "You wouldn't, would you?"

Outside again, she retraced her steps and stood staring at the door that
led to Beno's apartment. Whatever he may have had that could connect her
to him had undoubtedly been found by now. By the police.

Or by the murderer.

"She hasn't told me a thing," Rick insisted into the phone. "Anyway,
she's been in Washington for the past three days. At some medical
conference."

"I'm depending on you," Bill Miller told him. "The IMA is depending on
you. Lucy's own safety could depend on you."

"Now who's being melodramatic?"

"I'm worried about her," Bill insisted. "And it's been over a week since
you and I talked. We still have a deal, right?"

Rick sighed. "Yes, we still have a deal."

"So when are you planning to see her again?"

"I'm not sure. I've called her a couple of times this morning, but I
just get her answering machine."

"Keep trying."

"Bill, this isn't going to work if you pressure me.

You'll just have to let me do it my way. I promise I'll call you if she
tells me anything about the Jeanpierre business."

A silence. "Okay, Rick. But don't let me down."

Still carrying the bag with the statues, and badly shaken by the news of
Beno's murder, Lucy got off the crosstown bus and turned down Second
Avenue.

She was nearly past the greengrocer when she remembered her to-do list
and pulled it from her anorak pocket. Buy veggies, she read. Buy milk.

"Hey, doc. Wait up." She stopped dead, the familiar voice ringing in her
ears. "Help me get a cup of coffee, doc?"

She spun around and stared at the stocky figure in front of her, his
paper cup extended. "I didn't recognize you, Ray," she said. "You look
so good, I walked right by you." And he did look good: relatively clean,
his graying hair cut short, new hightops on his feet.

He must have gone to the rehabilitation center after all, she decided.

But then, what was he doing back on the street? She dug in her jeans
pocket for her wallet and peeled off two singles. "I was worried about
you," she told him, dropping the money into his cup. "Where have you
been?"

Ray stared at the money greedily. "Went to the stars," he murmured.

"The stars? Tell me about it." But he was already shuffling away, his
collar turned up against the chilly air. Curious, she went after him.

"I've got another dollar, Ray," she said. "If you tell me about the
stars, I'll give it to you."

Ray stopped and swung around to look at her. "Went to the stars," he
repeated. "I got real sick, so they took me to the stars and I got
better." He held out his hand for the dollar.

Someone must have taken him to a hospital, she thought. Perhaps the
rehabilitation center had organized it. He must have been awfully sick;
he'd been gone a long time. Funny, he hadn't seemed ill the last time
she'd seen him. "What was it like in the stars?" she asked, reaching for
her wallet again.

"It was warm," he said, idly scratching at his neck.

"Real warm. And I slept in a bed. And there were angels, golden angels."

Lucy smiled. In her experience, nurses were indeed angels. "Do you know
the name of the hospital?" she asked, holding the dollar above his cup.
But she could see from his eyes that she'd gotten all she was going to
get, today.

"Lived in a big star," he muttered. "A whole lot of us. We all lived in
a big star and we flew around with the angels." He shook his cup
impatiently, and Lucy let the bill nutter down into it.

"You take care of yourself, Ray," she said. "Get some food."

"Will do, doc." He turned away to wave his cup at another passerby, one
hand scrabbling beneath the collar of his jacket again.

"Ray? What's that on your neck?" She moved in for a closer look, and
felt a jolt go through her.

"Huh? Lemme alone," he protested immediately, turning up his collar and
backing away from her.

"Wait .. ." But he was already moving down the street, cursing and
muttering and waving his arms. She stood rooted, watching him go. I must
be mistaken, she thought; it simply isn't possible. But in the moment
before the collar had sprung back against his neck, she'd caught a
glimpse of what appeared to be six deep-red, crescent-shaped scars.

Chapter Fifteen.

The phone was ringing as Lucy came through the oor, milk and veggies
forgotten. Her mind was still grappling with the significance of Ray's
scars as she lunged for the receiver.

"Welcome home," said Rick. "How'd it go?"

"Fine," she said distractedly. She tossed the shopping bag with the
statues onto the sofa and wriggled out of her coat. Peruvia, she kept
thinking. How could Ray have had peruvia?

"And your paper met with loud huzzahs from one and all?"

"It went fine," Lucy repeated, tossing the coat in the direction of the
closet. Those golden angels .. .

A pause. "You sound funny. Anything wrong?"

Lucy sank into the desk chair. Everything, she thought; everything's
wrong. Beno, and Crazy Ray, and this warm, sexy man with whom I'm more
involved than I want to admit.. .. Her mind was buzzing with questions,
and she couldn't wait until this evening, as she'd planned, to get at
least one of them answered. "Rick, I have to ask you something."

"Shoot."

"Are you married?"

"Am I .. . ?" His voice became cautious. "Where did you hear that?"

"I mentioned your name to an old friend at the convention. Turns out she
knew you slightly, some time back. She mentioned your wife. Dotty--I
mean Eleanor."

"What old friend was that? What's her name?"

"Who cares? Is it true? Are you married?"

Rick sighed. "Technically, yes. But Lucy, I'm getting divorced.

That's why I went back to California.

To settle the last few details." Lucy was silent. "Look, I'll give you
the phone number of the attorney who's acting for me. You can ask him
yourself."

"Why didn't you tell me?" Lucy said quietly.

"I don't know ...  I guess I thought it didn't matter.

Or wouldn't, once the decree became final. Which will be soon, Luce, I
swear." He hesitated. "I never meant to hurt you. You know, this is
really awkward to talk about on the phone. Can we have dinner tonight?

Discuss it face-to-face?"

"I ... don't think I'm up for dinner tonight," she said. Beno Stanislas
had known his murderer. Did Beno tell him about her before he died?

"That's not fair," he protested, misunderstanding her reluctance.

"Okay, I admit I wasn't completely open with you. But Eleanor and I have
been separated for months, even before I came here. Hell, that's one of
the reasons I came here. Lucy?"

"A lot of ... bad stuff has happened this morning," Lucy said slowly.

"Your being married is just the cherry on the goddamn parfait."

"What bad stuff?"

"I found out that someone I knew was killed during a robbery last week.

And--" She broke off, suddenly reluctant to talk about the scars on
Ray's neck. I only had a brief glimpse of them, she told herself. I
could be mistaken. I must be mistaken.

"Let me help, Luce. Have dinner with me." But Lucy was silent.

"Don't do this," he said softly. "Don't let it end like this."

End? Suddenly Lucy was scared. Scared of Beno's murderer, scared of the
scars, and scared that she was about to lose this man she'd truly come
to care for.

She took several deep breaths and tried to center herself the way she
did when she was about to enter Level Four. Let's deal with one problem
at a time, she told herself. "If your marriage really is over .. ." she
began tentatively.

"My marriage was over years ago," Rick said bitterly.

"If your friend, whoever she is, knows anything about me, she'll know
that."

Fair enough, Lucy reflected. Barbara had said there had always been
stories. She'd suggested Rick might be divorced.

"Maybe I was wrong not to tell you," Rick continued.

"But I didn't lie to you about it, either. And I am getting divorced.

I would never do anything to hurt you. You have to trust that." He
paused.

"This .. . relationship we have going is not just a roll in the hay for
me, you understand? I care about you, Lucy. I care a lot. I won't ask if
you feel the same way. I know you have a need to take things slowly.

Hell, we've been seeing each other for over a month now, and you've
never invited me up to your apartment.

You have your reasons, I guess, and I respect that. I don't quite
understand it, but I respect it. The point is, I trust you even though I
don't completely understand you. And if we're going to keep on seeing
each other, you're going to have to trust me that way, too."

How could I have doubted this man? Lucy thought.

He's like a rock: strong and safe and solid. A feeling of relief flowed
over her at the thought of something safe and solid in the maelstrom of
the morning's events. "Let's not go out to dinner tonight," she said.

"Why don't I cook something here, instead? How would that be?"

He was quiet for a moment. Then, "I'd like that very much."

"So what do you think he's up to?"

"You know as much as I do. You read my report."

"Come on, Rossetti. You're on ground zero. What's your take on it?"

"Don't have one yet."

"And you still don't know what it was she took from Dither's apartment,
I suppose."

Rossetti shook his head. "No idea."

The older man studied the younger one across the scarred wooden table.

"As my old Yiddish grandmother used to say, "You can't dance at two
weddings with one backside." You understand what I'm saying?"

Rossetti sighed. "I'm not going into business for myself, if that's what
you're suggesting." He reached for his beer, then changed his mind and
pushed the glass away. "That was a helluva thing to suggest, Tom ."

"Sorry, it's not what I meant." The older man reached for a potato chip,
hesitated, turned it over in his fingers. "Doctor says I need to cut my
cholesterol.

No, what I meant was," he continued, looking back at Rossetti, "don't
get emotionally involved." He popped the chip in his mouth and chewed.

"Fuck him."

"Nice attitude," Rossetti told him. "Your doctor's not the one who's
risking a coronary. And now," he said, rising, "if there's nothing else
you'd like to accuse me of, I think I'll be going."

"Just remember what I said. And I want to talk again on Tuesday."

"That's only three days from now," Rossetti protested.

"What could we have to talk about?"

His companion regarded him with a jaundiced eye.

"Find something."

"Floating island," Lucy said, spooning the custard and meringue into
blue bowls. "It's like eating clouds." She passed one to Rick. "I always
think of it as comfort food."

"Comfort food?"

"You know, like mashed potatoes. And chicken pot pie."

"I don't know about the comfort part," Rick said, plying his spoon, "but
it's certainly delicious. So, was that salmon coubliac comfort food,
too?"

"No, that was just me showing off." She smiled and refilled their
wineglasses, but her eyes were troubled.

He reached over and put a hand on hers. "Wonderful cook though you are,"
he said gently, "food can take you only so far. Won't you let me offer a
little human comfort? Don't you think it might help to talk about your
friend?"

"He wasn't exactly a friend, but .. . it's kind of complicated." She
looked over at him. "Actually, I'd like to tell you about it." She
hesitated--where to begin? "The man who was killed was named Beno
Stanislas. I'd only met him once, about a month and a half ago. He was
an art dealer."

"And how did you meet--?"

"Please, Rick. Let me tell it my way." She reached for her wineglass and
took a small, meditative sip.

"Beno's expertise was in primitive artifacts. He and Jean-Pierre did
some .. . business together."

"Jean was a collector?"

Lucy smiled ruefully. "In a sense. He was a smuggler.

He took valuable ancient artifacts out of whatever country the IMA sent
him to, and smuggled them into the States. He'd made quite a few trips
to South America for the IMA, and had an arrangement with a dealer in
Lima. Stanislas was his New York fence.

Well, one of them."

"Are you serious?" She nodded. "It's hard to imagine a doctor getting
involved in something like that."

"That's why he was so successful at it, I guess."

"There must be big money in it," Rick suggested.

"Look at Miller's collection. I suppose it could be tempting to the
right guy."

"Jean liked to live well," Lucy said, remembering.

"He said his family had money."

"Well, somebody did." Lucy nodded. "Beno said many serious collectors
don't care much about the source, only about the authenticity.

I find that so strange."

"True collectors of anything are kind of maniacal," Rick said.

"Fanatics."

"That's exactly how Bill described himself," Lucy said. "I've been
wondering whether he was one of Beno's customers."

"The sainted Dr. Miller buying smuggled artifacts?"

Rick scoffed. But he remembered how Bill had stressed the virtues of
pragmatism.

"I asked Beno, actually, and he denied he even knew Bill. But I think it
was Bill's name that got him to let me in." Rick's eyebrow went up.

"He said not, that people had been hanging around, spying on him.

He thought I was one of them, and he wanted a closer look."

"If Miller was in the market for smuggled art, why wouldn't he buy
direct from Jean?" Rick asked.

"Maybe he would have," she replied, "if Jean had been able to keep the
appointment he'd made with Bill. But Jean died two days before." She
drank some wine. "On the other hand, even a fanatical collector like
Bill would probably refuse to buy something he absolutely knew had been
smuggled in. Stanislas, on the other hand, was a dealer; Bill could buy
from him, or from any other dealer for that matter, and convince himself
there was nothing illegal going on. As long as he doesn't ask too many
questions."

"I never could understand the drive to own things like that," Rick said.
"It's like the people who travel to exotic places and spend most of the
time in souvenir shops."

"Yes, but these are some pretty fancy souvenirs we're talking about."

"The principle's the same. May I?" He helped himself to more dessert.

"The beauty of nature is what appeals to me," he said. "Especially in
such a fragile environment as the South American rain forests.

They're the last unspoiled regions on earth--what's left of them, that
is. The ecological balance is so delicate.

Taking anything away with you is like .. . rape."

"You've been there?" Lucy asked, surprised.

"There's a lot of wisdom," he continued, ignoring her question, "in that
old saying about taking only photographs and leaving only footprints."

"Bill wouldn't agree," Lucy said. "He feels his collection is helping to
preserve ethnic heritages."

"Sure he does." Rick spooned up some custard.

"Amazing, isn't it, how people can rationalize doing whatever it is
they're determined to do. Even Jeanpierre probably rationalized his
smuggling: "The legislation is unfair, promoting of free trade is good,
I'm giving the world access to artifacts that would otherwise stay
hidden and unappreciated.. .." Although I don't see how anyone could
rationalize drug running."

"Jean couldn't have been smuggling drugs," Lucy said decisively. "He
didn't need to; he was making all that money smuggling art."

"A profitable sideline is always nice."

"Beno seemed to think so, too," Lucy admitted.

"He'd read about the drug arrest and assumed Jean was guilty. But--"

"Maybe Beno fenced heroin, too?"

"No, he got furious when I accused him of it."

"And you believed him?"

"Yes, I did." Lucy shivered, remembering the old man serving her tea and
biscuits. "It's .. . frightening to think that he's dead."

"Random violence is always frightening," Rick said.

"But you live in a secure building, there's a doorman--"

"It's not random violence I'm afraid of," Lucy said quietly. "Beno
Stanislas wasn't killed during a breakin, Rick. There was no break-in.
He opened the door to his killer."

"But .. . why should that scare you7" Lucy was silent for a moment.

"If Beno told his killer about me before he died, I could be next."

"I don't understand."

"I found a notebook hidden in Jean's desk."

"What?" Rick leaned forward, frowning.

"It lists his suppliers, and various art galleries, and money he was
paid, or maybe owed, I don't know.

That's how I found out about Stanislas." She paused.

"Beno warned me to keep it hidden."

"A notebook .. . Where is it?" Lucy looked at him in surprise. "I mean,
you've hidden it somewhere safe, right?" She nodded. "Maybe you
should--" The shrill of the phone interrupted whatever he'd been going
to say. "I can let the answering machine get it," she said uncertainly.

"No, go ahead and answer it," he told her. "I'll clean up." He rose and
began stacking the dessert dishes. Lucy went into the living room and
picked up the phone.

"You don't call, you don't write.. .." Monica's voice was teasing.

"So tell me about the conference.

How did your presentation go?"

"It went very well," Lucy said. "I got your message, but things have
just been .. . well, busy."

"You're forgiven. Hey, I was talking to Ted Wiley on Friday. He said to
give you his best."

"Ted? How's he enjoying Texas? Quite a change from the CDC."

"He loves it. He was wondering how you guys are coming along."

"You mean, with peruvia?" Behind her. Rick appeared in the doorway
between the dining area and kitchen. "We're working on protein analysis
and gene sequencing."

"You ever find that second strain?"

"No. Carl Anders still insists there is no second strain," Lucy said.

Rick moved closer. "It's all rather odd," she added.

"Talk about odd," Monica said, "that Anders guy sounds slightly over the
edge himself. Hold on a sec."

Lucy heard Howard's voice in the background. "Howard says to tell you
Max thought your Christmas present was the best thing he'd ever eaten."

"That dog of yours is a menace." Lucy laughed.

"Did you manage to take that photo you promised me? Or did he eat the
film, too?"

Monica chuckled. "Film's still in the camera. One of these years, we'll
finish the roll. So what are you up to this evening?"

"Actually, I have some, uh, company right now--" Rick disappeared into
the kitchen. "But I swear I'll call you tomorrow."

"Male company?"

"Yes." Lucy turned toward the kitchen whence came the sound of running
water.

"Well, let me not stand in the way of true love," Monica said. "Talk to
you tomorrow, sweetie."

Still smiling, Lucy hung up and started for the kitchen, then changed
direction and went along the hall to the bathroom. As she stood at the
mirror, combing her hair and applying fresh lipstick, she was glad she'd
told Rick about Stanislas. She felt calmer, having shared her fear. And
as he'd pointed out, her building was secure; she did have a doorman..
..

She opened the door and started down the hall, then froze. A cry rose in
her chest. Rick stood in front of her, a large kitchen knife gripped
tightly in his fist.

"I wondered where you'd got to," he said as he walked toward her.

"Tweezers," Bill Miller said. Sister Margareta put them into his hand
and he gently extracted the sliver of glass. "Got it. Some antibiotic
salve," he told the thin, rumpled woman on the examining table, "and
you'll be as good as new."

"No stitches?" the woman asked fearfully.

"No, just a bandage," he assured her.

"Don't get up," Margareta told the woman, putting a restraining hand on
her arm. "Doctor's not finished yet."

"I can't compliment you and your staff enough," Bill told Margareta over
his shoulder as he worked.

"I took a real chance, getting permission to keep those patients here.

If it had spread .. . Okay, my friend," he told the patient, "we're all
done. Try and keep it clean," he added as the woman swung down from the
table. "And the sisters will rebandage it tomorrow," he called after her
as she hurried from the room.

"Anyone else?" he asked Margareta.

"She was the last. Come and have some coffee." He followed her down the
corridor toward her cubicle of an office. Beyond them, the large red
quarantine sign had been removed from the double doors at the end of the
hall. The doors were open, now; the overnight shelter program was back
in business. "One hundred percent recovery," he murmured.

"Very impressive."

"Thanks to your skill, doctor," Margareta said graciously.

He settled himself on the small threadbare sofa as she filled paper cups
with hot, dark liquid from her personal coffeemaker. "No milk, I'm
afraid. But I do have sugar."

"Black is fine." He smiled and took the cup from her outstretched hand.
"I can't tell you how pleased I am."

"You're a good man," she told him. "You take such joy in our successes.
No, don't look so modest. So many people feel our .. .

clientele is not worth troubling with. I'm very proud of our nursing
staff, of course," she continued. "But without your antibiotics--"

"Not antibiotics," he reminded her gently. "The strain was
antibiotic-resistant, remember?"

"Of course." Margareta grew flustered. "I meant.. .

whatever drugs you gave them that helped them recover."

But Bill shook his head. "I really didn't do so much," he replied. "I
just fended off any secondary infections. You're the ones who cured
them. Your care, your dedication, your professionalism .. . You're
angels of mercy, all of you." He smiled at her.

"You're angels."

Covered from head to toe in spacesuits, their air supplies on their
backs, they entered the deserted ward like astronauts arriving on the
moon. They piled their equipment in the center of the room and unpacked
the bleach and duct tape.

Carl looked around at the stained walls, the bare iron cots.

Mattresses, pillows, sheets, all had been removed in biocontainment bags
and burned. The room had no windows, and the air that blew through the
ceiling vents was recirculated through a sealed, isolated air-flow
system. One man set up a ladder and pulled down the venting grids. The
grids and the ladder would remain here until the process was complete.

The men began to scrub the walls, ceiling, and floor with bleach.

They scrubbed the cots, the IV stands, the cabinets, the desk. They
opened the door that led to the staff living quarters, empty now, and
scrubbed that, too.

Carl watched them carefully. When he was satisfied, he asked for the
tape. Together with his men, he sealed up the joins between wall and
floor, wall and ceiling, anywhere that air could possibly seep through.

Now the men began unrolling a long, heavy electric cable with outlets
along its length, snaking it through the two rooms in a thick black
line. While the others unpacked the electric frying pans, Carl went
through the rooms scattering pieces of paper containing spores of
Bacillus subtilis niger.

When the cable was in place, the men began plugging in the frying pans,
setting each one to "high."

Carl followed after them, placing white crystals of formaldehyde on each
pan.

One last look around, and Carl signaled the men to leave. When the last
man was out in the corridor, he plugged the business end of the cable
into a heavyduty electrical outlet and closed the door. As the pans
heated up, changing the crystals to gas, two men quickly tape-sealed the
door from the outside.

For seventy-two hours, the room would remain airtight, filled with
killing gas. Then Carl would come back and take samples of the test
papers and look at them under a microscope. Subtilis niger was very hard
to kill, but he was reasonably certain that the formaldehyde would have
done its work. And if the bacillus was dead, then the other thing that
lived here would be dead, too. Or so he hoped.

Chapter Sixteen.

Lucy screamed and ran for the bathroom, slamming -L/the door closed
behind her, fumbling with the lock, twisting it shut. Gasping for
breath, she leaned against the sink and wondered what she could use as a
weapon. There was alcohol in the medicine cabinet; if she aimed for his
eyes .. .

"What the hell--?" Rick was at the door. "Lucy?"

There was a small window beside the toilet. She shoved it open and
looked down at the seven-story drop to the tiny courtyard below. No way
out, but she could scream. Maybe someone would hear her.

Someone with his windows open in the middle of February.

Right.

"Lucy? Are you all right?"

"So far," she shot back. "Disappointed?"

"What?" He rattled the doorknob. "Open the door."

"Why? So you can kill me the way you killed Stanislas?"

"The way I--?" A pause while the impact of what she'd said hit him.

Then, "Oh God. You thought--?"

Another pause, and then the sound of something being forced under the
door. She watched in horror as the knife blade slid inside, its point
toward her.

"Here," Rick called through the door. "Take it." The blade continued its
slow process along the floor, stopping for a moment at the handle.

She heard Rick curse, and then the rest of the knife came flying under
the door.

Lucy bent and retrieved it. "You have it?" he asked through the door.

"Then look at the blade.

I was scraping the burned bits off your damn roasting pan. See?"

"You used my good knife to clean a roasting pan?" she exclaimed.

Rick laughed. "That's better." A silence. "So you can come out now."

"Not so fast. Why were you looking for me with a knife in your hand?"

"I was cleaning the goddamn pan. Luce, and your oven started smoking.

Something's burning in there."

"Shit. The madeleines."

"fx-madeleines. I called, but you didn't answer, so I came looking for
you."

"Holding a knife?"

"Apparently so. An error of judgment, I grant you, but seeing smoke come
pouring out of the oven sort of rattled me. So, you coming out?"

Lucy considered. "Did you turn off the oven?"

"No. Should I?"

"Unless you want the fire department up here. And dump the burnt
offerings." She put her ear against the door and listened to the sound
of him retreating up the hall. Then, very quietly, she turned the lock
and cracked the door open. Peeking out, she watched his retreating back,
then crept up the hallway well behind him. The reassuring scent of
burning madeleines floated on the air. She watched him switch off the
oven, remove the cookie sheet with an ovengloved hand, and slide the
blackened confections into the trash. "Let it cool before you wash it,"
she instructed from the doorway.

The metal sheet crashed to the tile floor as Rick whirled around.

"Christ. You scared the shit out of me. Luce."

"Then I guess we're even."

They looked at each other for a long moment. Rick went and folded her in
his arms and suddenly she was shaking. "It's all right," he told her.
"Everything's all right."

He stroked her hair and whispered to her and held her, and somehow
coffee seemed unnecessary and the dishes could wait until the morning,
and then they were in her bed, their clothing strewn about the room,
their bodies working together, his lips on hers, and she felt herself
drowning in the feel and touch and taste of him. A long time later, damp
and flushed and spent, they slept in each other's arms.

She half-woke around four, nudged from slumber by some sound, some
movement. The room was in semidarkness. Beside her lay a dented pillow,
a rumpled duvet. Where was Rick? Probably in the John, she decided;
they'd drunk a lot of wine with dinner.

She closed her eyes, but a tiny sound made them fly open again.

Cautiously, without moving her body, she looked around the room, and
came fully awake. Rick stood at her dresser, his hands busy. In
disbelief she watched him go through each drawer, quickly and
methodically.

Then he tiptoed to the door and disappeared.

Moving slowly and silently, Lucy got out of bed and went after him.

She heard him opening and closing kitchen cabinets. Going to put a stop
to this right now, she thought, hurrying back to the bedroom door, heart
pounding. She draped herself against the jamb, hoping she looked
sufficiently like a woman who had just that very moment woken to find
her lover missing. "Rick?" she called plaintively. "Where are you?"

He appeared in the hallway, holding a glass of water and looking
flustered. "Lucy? Did I wake you? I was so dry." He took an ostentatious
gulp and came toward her. "Want some? Have you been up long?"

She shook her head drowsily. "I had a nightmare," she said, "and then I
woke up and you weren't there."

He put an arm around her and led her back to bed.

"Poor Lucy," he said. "So jumpy. First she thinks I'm trying to murder
her, now she has nightmares.. .."

He cuddled her in his arms, pulling the duvet around them. "I'm here,
babe," he said. "I'm right here. Go back to sleep, love. I'll protect
you."

So you'll protect me, will you? Lucy thought grimly, lying in his arms,
willing herself to stay awake. And who will protect me from you?

"Did you sleep at all?"

"Not much."

The sat across the table from each other, sipping cups of strong
Starbucks coffee. "You sure you're not hungry?" Rick asked. "This
croissant is really good."

"It looks good," Lucy said, "but no."

Conversation had been faltering this morning, at least on Lucy's part.

Rick had put it down to tiredness, which was partly true. He didn't know
she'd seen him searching her apartment, didn't know she was wondering
who this stranger was, sitting across from her. "So what are your
plans?" he asked. "Shall we see a flick?

Go to the Met? Or we could go downtown, wander around Soho."

"Actually, I need to spend a few hours at the hospital today."

"Sunday?"

"Patients don't take the weekend off, I'm afraid."

"Well, can we meet later on?"

"I don't know how long I'll be, and I'm really tired.

Can I have a rain check?"

Rick looked surprised. "Sure. Uh, are you all right?"

"Yes, just tired." She managed to smile. "What will you do?"

"Actually I have some work to catch up on, too.

More coffee?"

"Half a cup, thanks. Then I'd better get going."

They parted outside the coffee bar, and Lucy, weary and confused, stood
watching him until he turned the corner. Then, her heart heavy, she
headed back home in search of Crazy Ray.

"Help me get something to eat?" he muttered as she came toward him.

His hat was pulled low over his forehead, his jacket misbuttoned. He
appeared agitated and confused.

She had a dollar ready, and dropped it into his cup.

"How are you today, Ray?" she said brightly. "How's that neck?" He
scowled at her, his eyes cloudy and unfocused. "You know who I am?"

she probed. "I'm the doc, remember?"

"Don't need no doc," he said, eyes wandering.

"Don't you remember me?"

He regarded her with an expression of hostility, and a total lack of
recognition. "Go away. Get away from me."

"I just want to see that rash on your--" Ray's arms windmilled as he
pulled away from her.

"Thief!" he shouted. "This is my money!"

Lucy stepped back quickly. "I don't want your money, Ray."

"Can't have it. It's mine." He stumbled after her, yelling and flailing
his fists. "Trying to steal my money.

Get away from me."

Lucy retreated a safe distance, then turned back and watched as a mother
and child crossed the street to avoid him. She sighed. He must have
stopped taking his medication again. She'd seen these paranoid episodes
before, and she knew it would be impossible to examine the scars until
the mood swing had passed.

Ray ambled down the street, muttering and cursing, then stopped and
banged his cup against the window of a pizza store until a man in a
stained white apron came out and chased him away. The police would be
getting phone calls again, she thought despondently.

And if they acted this time, if they removed Ray from the neighborhood
before she had a chance to examine those peruvia scars .. .

Then she thought: peruvia scars? Give me a break.

She turned and walked slowly back toward her apartment building. It
simply wasn't possible; it was merely a figment of her overheated
imagination. She'd only had a tiny glimpse, after all. It could have
been anything.

She let herself into the apartment and locked the door carefully behind
her. As she hung up her coat, she noticed the shopping bag. She'd shoved
it into the closet the day before while doing a fast cleanup in
anticipation of Rick's visit. Now she pulled it out and removed the two
carvings. Tossing the bag aside, she went and set the statues in their
usual spot on the low chest. It's not over yet, kids, she told them.
Tenacity Nash is still on the case.

But which case? There suddenly seemed to be so many: drugs, art, Beno's
murder, Ray's peruvia scars .. .

They weren't peruvia scars, she told herself sternly.

They couldn't have been. You're overwrought. You're seeing things.

Sure I am, she thought. And Carl Anders didn't threaten to kill me.

And Beno Stanislas is alive and well. And Rick wasn't going through my
dresser drawers in the middle of the night.

The outer door was locked, as usual. He inserted his cardkey, pulled it
open, and walked quickly past the deserted guard's desk to the elevator.
He rode it up to the second floor and got out. The steel doors were
locked shut, but they slid back when he turned his key in the wall lock,
and his cardkey opened the glass doors beyond. He passed through the
dark reception area and the short, dogleg hallway, into the lab.

He paused for a moment, orienting himself in the pitch dark, then took a
small flashlight from his pocket and played it around, spotlighting work
counters, test tubes, beakers, microscopes.

He followed the beam through the lab, freezing at an imagined sound and
dousing the light, waiting, proceeding.

He entered a short hallway. Ahead, large red signs warned biohazard.

no admittance. He continued down the corridor to the steel doors and
pushed through them into the locker room.

Now he allowed himself the luxury of electric light.

The flashlight went back into his jacket pocket. His clothes came off,
his underwear, his watch. He bundled it all into a locker, then put on a
sterile scrub suit, gloves, socks. With practiced ease, he sealed the
join between socks and trousers, gloves and cuffs.

He went through to the staging area. Blue Chemturion spacesuits hung
from a rack against one wall. He shuffled through them, found the one
that had anders stenciled across the chest, inspected it very carefully
for tears, and then laid it out on the floor. He stepped into it and
pulled it up around his body, put on the helmet, taped and Velcroed
himself airtight, plugged in an air hose, cleared the faceplate.

lethal pathogens. biohazard. He ignored the warnings, unhooked the hose,
and entered the steel air lock. He barely paused, continuing through to
the concrete boot room, connecting and disconnecting and reconnecting
his air supply.

A few feet away, one final steel door, the entrance to Biosafety Level
Four, separated him from his objective.

Stepping up to it confidently. Rick Hollander went through the door and
emerged in the Lethal Pathogens Lab.

Chapter Seventeen.

TERRORIST BOMB CRIPPLES PARIS METRO, Monday morning's headlines
screamed. 33 dead, 116

HURT. ALGERIAN GROUP CLAIMS CREDIT.

"Terrible, just terrible," the doorman said, opening the plate-glass
door for Lucy. "Poison gas in Tokyo, pipe bombs in Atlanta .. . now
this. World's going nuts."

"Sure seems that way," Lucy agreed, hurrying out into the street.

She'd seen the horrifying news report on television as she'd dressed.

Up early thanks to troubled dreams, she'd decided to clear her head with
a visit to one of her favorite places: the gym. The events of the
weekend had shaken her, and she hoped that mindless physical activity
would have its usual calming effect.

Having ascertained that Rick hadn't found Jean's notebook the night
before, she'd decided the safest thing would be to lock it in her
safe-deposit box at the bank. With that in mind, she now retrieved it,
shoving it among the clothes in her gym bag.

Ray was at his old spot in front of Mcdonald's. She greeted him as she
went past, but got only muted curses and an angry, glassy-eyed stare in
return. Well, at least he was still on the street where she could get
hold of him when his mental state improved.

She made the rounds of the exercise machines, working herself hard, then
finished up with twenty minutes on the treadmill. The news played
soundlessly on the large television sets, shots of stretchers and
twisted metal making an odd contrast to the rock music pumping through
the gym's sound system.

The exercise was helping, she decided. Her fears, though still with her,
somehow felt more manageable.

Beno had seemed a pretty discreet guy; maybe he hadn't told his killer
about her. As for Ray, it would be easy to check him and prove herself
wrong, once his medication kicked in again. And Rick .. . Still running,
she swigged from a small bottle of Evian. She had no idea what Rick was
playing at, but surely she could keep him at arm's-length until she
figured it out.

She finished her run, then showered, letting the warm water flow over
her, relaxing her muscles and her psyche. She was just stepping out of
the shower room when a dark figure sprang at her, sending her sprawling
over a bench. She was up again in a moment, ready to fight off her
attacker, but the threatening figure transformed itself into a blond,
middle-aged woman in dark sweats.

"Are you all right?" the woman asked solicitously.

"Sorry I ran you down. Moving too fast, I guess."

"I'm okay," Lucy replied, lowering her fists, her heart pounding. Good
one, she told herself wryly; you almost took out the assistant manager.

It was barely eight-fifteen when Lucy, dressed in street clothes again,
bought a newspaper and a cup of the club's cappuccino and carried them
to a table by the window. As she read about the terrorist attack, her
dark mood slowly returned. It was quite horrifying, she reflected, what
fanatics were prepared to inflict on innocent bystanders in the name of
a selfstyled cause.

Man's cruelty to man brought back thoughts of Beno Stanislas. Not
precisely an innocent bystander, but not guilty of any crime that
carried the death penalty. Although, if he'd lied about his ignorance of
the heroin Jean-Pierre had been carrying .. .

"Protecting yourself against strangers is bad enough," Damien had told
her. "But you'd never imagine you'd have to protect yourself from your
friends."

Maybe it's time to figure out who my friends really are, she reflected.

Sipping the hot coffee thoughtfully, she decided it had been a mistake
not to have told Bill about Jean's involvement in art smuggling. He knew
the art world; maybe he could help her work out how art and heroin could
be connected. Of course, knowing about Jean's art smuggling might add
weight to Bill's conviction that Jean had been smuggling drugs. But she
would risk it. She was tired of secrets: Jean's, Beno's, her own.

She finished the coffee and grabbed a taxi downtown to IMA headquarters.

"He's been in a meeting since eight," Alicia told her. "In the
conference room. It shouldn't last much longer, if you want to wait."

"I do."

"Well, go on in. I'll tell him you're here. Can I get you some coffee?"

"No, thanks."

Lucy walked across the attractively appointed office toward the large
windows. It appeared that Bill had been here for some time. The morning
newspapers lay scattered across the coffee table, and an inch of
congealing coffee lay in the bottom of the mug on his desk. The computer
was on, its screen saver spiraling slowly.

Outside, Mother Nature had mistaken February for April, and produced a
bright blue sky along with a crisp but pleasant air temperature of
fifty-four. She looked down at the streets below: the rush-hour crowds
scurrying about, cars and taxis jostling for position.

What easy targets we all are, she thought.

"Lucy. How nice." She turned back from the window.

Bill stood in the doorway, a paper cup in his hand. He smiled at her.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I need to ask your advice about something," she said.

"Please. Sit down." He gestured toward the seating area in front of his
desk, and she joined him there.

"Awful, isn't it?" She indicated the newspapers on the table in front of
them.

"Terrible," Bill agreed solemnly, setting down the cup of fresh coffee.

"We've just been talking about sending a team to help out. Not sure
they'll need us, but I feel we should offer."

Lucy nodded. "I can't understand how people can do such things to each
other," she said. "How do they sleep at night?"

"Quite soundly, I'm afraid," Bill answered. He sighed. "It's appalling,
as you say. But the problem is that in today's world, how else can such
downtrodden ethnic minorities make themselves heard?"

Lucy stared at him. "You're defending these killers?"

"No, of course not. I'm just explaining their rationale.. .." He looked
uncomfortable. "I condemn such action, of course." He frowned and looked
at his watch. "I don't mean to seem rude, but I have a rather full
morning. How can I help you, Lucy?" He sipped from the cup and set it
down.

Lucy hesitated. Now that she was face-to-face with Bill, the idea of
telling him about Jean's art smuggling didn't seem quite as red hot as
it had in the gym. "It's about Jean-Pierre," she said slowly.

"Not that again," Bill interrupted impatiently.

"Yes, that again," Lucy replied politely but firmly.

"I learned something curious this weekend, and I wanted your opinion.

But maybe I shouldn't bother you with it." She rose.

"Don't be so prickly," he said. "I just don't like to see you wasting
your time. But if you've learned something important .. ." He smiled
ingratiatingly. "I apologize. Sit down and tell me about it."

He picked up his coffee again.

She studied him for a moment, reassured by the sincere interest she saw
in his eyes. "Jean was an art smuggler," she said, resuming her seat.

"He specialized in ancient artifacts. He relied on the good name of the
IMA, and the fact that your personnel are treated with such respect, to
bring things into the country whenever he came back from a mission." And
that will teach you to patronize me, Lucy thought with satisfaction.

"So that was why he wanted that meeting with me," Bill exclaimed
angrily. "He wanted to sell me stolen art."

"Very possibly. Jean usually sold his artifacts through a number of art
galleries here in New York.

But one dealer said he thought Jean was planning to cheat him by going
directly to his clients."

"But .. . are you certain about all this?" Bill asked, frowning.

Why hadn't Rick told him about this new development? Didn't they have a
deal?

"Oh, yes. I found Jean's secret notebook--oh, you've spilled your
coffee. Better put some water on--"

"Never mind my shirt," he said impatiently, dabbing at it with his
hanky. "Tell me about the notebook."

"It lists all his contacts--the people he bought from, the galleries he
sold to."

"Goddamnit." Bill rose, still wiping at his shirt.

"Drugs weren't enough for him; he had to smuggle art, too. When I think
of the risk--"

"You don't understand," Lucy interrupted. "I agree that his art
smuggling put the IMA at risk. But it actually proves what I've always
maintained: that Jean wasn't dealing drugs."

"I don't see how," Bill said angrily, pacing. "To my mind, it proves the
opposite."

"No, it doesn't," Lucy insisted. "Think about it. If Jean were caught
bringing in heroin, not only would he be looking at a long jail
sentence, but his medical career would be finished, his reputation
destroyed. But if he were caught with illegal art, he could simply claim
to be an amateur, say he had no idea he was doing anything wrong.

The artwork would be confiscated, he might be fined .. . but it would be
a slap on the wrist, that's all. No, it doesn't make sense that Jean
would risk smuggling drugs when he could make all that money smuggling
art."

"But he was smuggling heroin," Bill insisted, turning back from the
window.

"Why do you want to believe the worst of him?" Lucy asked, puzzled. "He
was a doctor, an IMA volunteer.

Why aren't you on his side?"

"Because he put this organization at risk," Bill replied tightly.

Lucy sighed. Bill was right, of course. And yet .. .

"The reason I'm here," she told him, "is to see if you can help me
figure out how heroin and art could be connected, somehow."

"That's easy. He was smuggling both."

"No, Bill. I'm certain he wasn't."

"What then?"

"I believe the drugs were planted on him for some reason."

"What?" Bill stopped in midstride, contemplating her in horror.

"Someone put the heroin in his suitcase," Lucy insisted.

"But .. . why?"

"I don't know. But someone made damn sure he wouldn't have a chance to
defend himself against the charge."

"How do you mean?"

"That death pill. Did you really buy that suicide story?"

"Of course." Bill looked surprised. "He was a doctor.

He'd know how to prepare a death capsule of some sort."

"But why should he want to?"

"I'm sure he'd prefer death to a highly publicized trial--"

"And so we come full circle again," Lucy said tiredly. "You think he
knew the drugs were there, and I don't."

"I guess we'll never know the truth," he said. "So as I've been saying
all along, it's best to just forget the whole--"

"There's more.

Bill."

"More?" He regarded her warily.

"You ever hear of an art dealer named Beno Stanislas?"

"Can't say I have," Bill replied, turning away from her to toss his
coffee-stained handkerchief onto his desk.

"He was one of Jean's fences. I went to see him just before Christmas.

He told me people had been spying on him. Last week he was killed in a
botched robbery. At least, that's what the police say."

"And you believe differently?" He turned toward her with a disbelieving
smile. "Really, Lucy."

"Don't laugh at me. Bill. Isn't it possible someone killed Beno because
he knew too much?"

"Too much about whafl Jean's art smuggling?

Jean's dead. None of that matters anymore."

"Beno's dead, too, remember. So we won't ever know what else Beno might
have known too much about."

Bill came around to where Lucy sat and put a fatherly arm on her
shoulder. "Don't you think you might be overdramatizing all this, just a
little?" he asked. "You're overworked, overtired. You're letting your
imagination run wild." He sat down next to her.

She could smell the coffee drying on his shirt. "You came here for my
advice. Well, here it is, the same as before: forget this whole nasty
business."

"I can't."

"You must. For your own good." He shook his head regretfully. "You
started this conversation by asking me to help you find a connection
between drugs and art. Okay, I'll ask around. I know all the major
players; maybe I'll come up with something. But understand this, Lucy.

If I do uncover some sort of connection, you may not like what it is.

I've warned you of this before. You start opening doors, you have to be
prepared to deal with whatever lies behind them."

"But you'll give it a shot?"

He shrugged. "Sure. Although I still say you're reading too much into
all of this. Just the way you did with Carl Anders's files."

"They were sangre negra files. Bill. What was I supposed to think?"

He shook his head, smiling. "That's what I mean.

You act as if the most likely explanation is that Carl's Mexican sangre
negra is your Peruvian one and that people are keeping things from you."
He smiled sadly.

"You need to step back, get some perspective." He reached over and
squeezed her hand. "I have nothing but respect for you, Lucy. You're an
excellent doctor, a helluva researcher ... a fine, compassionate person.

I promise I'll do what I can, as long as you promise me you'll
concentrate on what you know: medicine.

How's your peruvia research coming?"

"Very well," Lucy told him, feeling slightly whiplashed from the rapid
change of subject matter.

"The similarities with Ebola are quite striking."

"Are they?" he said vaguely. "Not my field, I'm afraid."

"No. Well, it raises some interesting questions, especially when you
consider how isolated the area of the peruvia outbreak was. How did the
IMA come to hear about it, by the way? I've forgotten."

"An anthropologist, working in the area, mentioned it to one of our
South American representatives."

"Could you give me his name? I'd like to talk to him."

"The rep?" Bill frowned.

"No, the anthropologist."

"I don't see why you-- Actually, I don't remember his name, offhand.

It was all sort of word of mouth."

"I see," said Lucy. "And there's never been an outbreak of peruvia
outside South America?"

"Not so far as I know. Why? Oh, those damn sangre negra files. I've
already told you: it was a Mexican hantavirus." He began folding the
scattered newspapers, some stained with coffee, and stacking them neatly
in a pile.

"No, I wasn't thinking about that. I saw--" Lucy broke off. She wasn't
really sure of what she'd seen on Ray's neck--not yet, anyway.

And Bill had already accused her of imagining things, of
overdramatizing.

Without some sort of proof, he'd only laugh her off.

"I know how committed you are to helping the homeless," she continued,
changing her approach, "and I was wondering whether you're familiar with
a mission or a mission-run hospital that has the word 'star' in its
name." Bill's head jerked around. "Star?" he said. "Not offhand. Why?"

"There's a street person in my neighborhood who fell ill at a mission."
She smiled. "He said he got sick and lived in a star and flew around
with gold angels.

From the way he spoke, it sounded like they could be dealing with some
sort of epidemic there. I thought there might be some way the IMA could
help."

"Star .. ." he mused, returning to his paper folding.

"Now I think about it, I believe Carl may have mentioned such a mission.
I don't recall the actual name, but 'star' sounds familiar."

He paused, thinking. "I seem to remember that Anders did some volunteer
work there." He saw the look of surprise on her face.

"He's a difficult man, Lucy, but his heart's in the right place. If it's
the one I'm thinking of, Carl worked there only briefly. He said it was
very poorly run. If you're thinking of offering your services, I suggest
you steer clear of it." He placed the final newspaper on the stack. "If
your friend's in need of medical attention, I can recommend several
places you can send him to."

He stood and went to his desk. "Shall I write them out for you?"

"That won't be necessary. He seems fine now."

Lucy stood, too, gathering up her purse, jacket, gym bag.

"Good. Well, I hope I was some help to you, Lucy.

And I will follow through on that art-heroin connection."

He turned and smiled at her. "You were right to come and tell me," he
said. "I'm sorry if I was a little negative, but you took me by
surprise."

"Of course. Well, thanks for your time. Bill." She smiled at him.

"And your advice." She started to leave.

"Uh, Lucy? What have you done with Jean's notebook?"

Lucy froze, then turned to stare at him. "I just want to make sure it's
safe," he said quickly.

"It's locked away in a bank vault," Lucy said carefully.

The gym bag suddenly felt very heavy. "It's absolutely secure."

"Good." He watched her walk out into the corridor, then went back in and
swung the office door closed.

Returning to his desk, he reached for the telephone.

"I get them at a little French bakery around the corner from my
apartment," Rick said. "You want another?" He pushed the paper plate of
assorted sweet rolls across the desk.

Carl swallowed the last of his apple turnover.

"Thanks." He inspected the contents of the plate.

"The cinnamon rolls are good."

Carl carefully cut one in half, took a bite, chewed.

"Delicious," he agreed. "Well, this is certainly a nice change from the
usual breakfast fare around here."

"You mean you're not a fan of stale donuts and weak coffee?" Rick
laughed.

"It was nice of you to bring them," Carl said. "And the coffee."

"Vanilla-almond's a big favorite of mine, too." Rick sipped the fragrant
brew, then leaned back in Carl's visitor's chair. "Very civilized."

"Yes." Carl started on the second half of his roll.

"I can't tell you how sorry I am about that outburst of mine."

"Ancient history," Rick said kindly. "Don't even mention it. A job like
yours produces a helluva lot of stress. It had to go somewhere, and I
happened to be in the way."

"Nice of you to see it like that."

"Well, I can understand what it's like for you. I've been there."

"You ran your own show at Stanford," Carl acknowledged.

" "Course, we didn't deal with stuff like this peruvia thing. Level Four
work." He gave a delicate shudder.

"I can't tell you how much I admire your courage, going in there every
day." He drank some coffee and watched Carl preen. "Talk about stress."

"You get used to it," Carl said bravely.

"Still, not many places offer that kind of challenge.

Aside from the CDC, of course." He paused. "You ever find that second
strain?"

"Second strain?" Carl stopped chewing.

"Peruvia. The second strain that guy Wiley found, down in Atlanta.

You ever find it up here?"

"How did you hear about that?"

"Lucy mentioned it. More coffee?"

Carl shook his head. "There is no second strain. I told her that."

"But the CDC was so sure."

"They must have compromised one of their samples."

"Funny kind of contaminant, though. Doesn't seem likely. Not that it's
any of my business," Rick added hurriedly. "Uh, have you tried the
crullers?"

"I've had enough." Carl scowled and pushed away his plate. "We both have
work to do."

"Of course. I'll just clean up here." He began gathering up the paper
plates, the soiled napkins. "So how're things between you and Lucy these
days? You getting along okay?"

Carl eyed him suspiciously. "Yes. Why?"

"Oh, no reason. It's just that working on Level Four is tough enough
without the stress of being in there with someone you can't stand."

"Can't stand?" Carl looked surprised. "I wouldn't put it as strongly as
that."

Rick tossed the used paper goods in Carl's trash can. "Come on, Carl.

You can be honest with me. I know you don't like her." Carl shrugged and
sipped his coffee. "And after that incident when you saved her life and
she turned around and accused you of trying to kill her .

.

." Rick looked over at Carl. "I'm amazed you can work in the same lab
with her."

"It's not easy," Carl allowed.

"Practically impossible, I should think. If it were me, I'd want a good,
thick wall between us." He waited hopefully. When Carl didn't respond,
he added, "Is that what you did?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I bet you set yourself up another lab, a separate one, inside Level
Four, didn't you? Someplace private."

Carl paled. "Of course not. Why should I do such a thing?"

"Why, to get away from Lucy, of course." Rick emptied the plate of
sweets into the white bakery bag, folded the top, and placed it on a
corner of the desk, saying, "Why don't you keep these for later?" He
resumed his seat, insisting, "You did, didn't you? I tell you, it's what
I would have done."

"What you suggest is quite impossible," Carl began, but the telephone
interrupted his denial. He answered it, listened for a moment, then put
his hand over the mouthpiece. "Thank you for breakfast. Rick.

Now, if you'll excuse me, this is a private call."

"Of course. Uh, we still on for a drink this evening?"

"I'll let you know. Um, shut the door on your way out, will you?"

Rick paused outside the closed door, but could make out only a low,
intermittent murmur, so he headed back toward his own lab. Carl was
obviously lying, he reflected. If the CDC said there was a second
strain, it definitely existed. Yet he'd searched Anders's workstation
thoroughly on Sunday, with disappointing results. If Carl truly hadn't
found it in his own samples, why hadn't he requested a sample from the
CDC? That would be normal procedure. And if Carl had found it, why was
he denying its existence?

He slumped down into his desk chair, watching the flying toasters drift
across his computer screen. Where could it be? he wondered. Where had
Carl hidden it?

And, more important, why?

Chapter Eighteen.

"which in this case proved to be 0157:H7, w the same strain of E. coli
responsible for the outbreak of food poisoning in Sakai, near Osaka, in
1996," Lucy dictated into the hand-held recorder.

"In that outbreak, more than 6,000 elementary school students were
infected with the 0-157 colon bacillus bacteria through the consumption
of contaminated school lunches. Don't hover, Jake, you're making me
nervous." She beckoned to him and pointed to a chair.

"This strain was also responsible for the 1993 outbreak in the United
States, during which 700 people became ill after consuming undercooked
hamburgers.

Four fatalities resulted. Typical symptoms of 0-157 include bloody
diarrhea, abdominal cramps, and, in severe cases, renal failure." She
switched off the recorder and set it on top of the E. coli file.

"What's up?"

"Just the usual chaos. I hear you had quite a success in our nation's
capital last week."

Lucy grinned. "With all due modesty, I must admit I was terrific."

Jake smiled. "Congratulations. I'm not surprised."

"Thanks. Look," she continued, reaching for the recorder again, "I don't
mean to be rude, but can whatever it was you wanted wait? I'm getting
ready for the departmental conference tomorrow morning."

"And I've got rounds in ten minutes. I just stopped by to invite you to
dinner next Sunday. And Beth says to bring along that guy you've been
seeing."

"Rick?" Lucy looked doubtful.

"That his name? Seems you've been telling my wife things you haven't
told me," he added mock accusingly.

"Who is he?"

"His name's Richard Hollander. He works at the IMA lab, but I don't
think--"

"Richard Hollander?" Jake looked impressed.

"Stanford, right?"

"Yes." Lucy put down the recorder and gave Jake her full attention.

"You know him?"

"No, but I've heard the name. You say he's running the IMA lab?"

"Not running it; working in it. He's got his own lab setup, does some
private research .. . What's the matter?"

"Nothing. Only it seems kind of funny, a guy like Hollander working for
the IMA."

"Does it? Why?"

"First of all, he's a control freak, or so I was told.

And second, he's not what you'd term an altruist."

"I thought you said you didn't know him."

"I don't. But one of my residents worked with him briefly. This goes
back a while. Guy did a year of graduate work in biochemistry at
Stanford before applying to medical school. He said Hollander was
brilliant, but very controlling. And not very generous about sharing
scientific credit. Not exactly selfless, if you take my meaning." He
paused. "Doesn't sound like the kind of guy who'd give up tenure at
Stanford to become a do-gooder at a small, unknown lab."

"People change," Lucy murmured.

"Of course they do," Jake said soothingly. "Bring him to dinner."

"I'm .. . not sure about Sunday, actually. Can I let you know?"

"Sure. Hey, don't take what I said too seriously.

I'm just repeating seven-year-old gossip."

When Jake Weiss had gone, Lucy sat for a moment in thought, then reached
for her Rolodex and sorted through it. People change, she thought, but
not that much. She pulled the phone toward her and began dialing. It
took several tries, but at last she managed to track down Barbara Coley.

"Barbara? Lucy Nash. Yes, it was great seeing you, too. Actually, I'm
calling to ask sort of a weird favor.

Do you think you could find a photo of Rick Hollander?

In a professional journal or something, I mean. Well, we're making a ...
a party for him, celebrating his first six months with the IMA, and I
thought it would be fun if we could find an article he wrote, something
with his picture, and enlarge it and .. . Really? That would be great.
No, why don't you fax it to me if you find it. Yes, he sooner, the
better." She gave Barbara the number of the office fax.

"Thanks a million. Barb. I owe you."

She hung up and turned back to her half-finished report. "Upon positive
identification of 0-157 in the stool samples of our patients, New York
General issued a statement warning consumers about the dangers of eating
undercooked meat and urging infected persons to seek medical aid
immediately  ..." Her voice trailed off. A photo of Hollander would be
helpful, but not definitive. The photo could be old, and people did
change. She reached for the telephone again, dialed directory assistance
for Palo Alto, and requested the general phone number for Stanford.

She copied the number in her desk diary, then hesitated, receiver in
hand, wondering whether she was chasing phantoms. But he had been
searching her apartment, she reminded herself. Why would a molecular
biologist do that? She quickly punched in the numbers.

After much transferring, she was finally connected with someone in
molecular biology and asked to speak with Richard Hollander.

"He's on an extended sabbatical until September," the woman told her.

"Is there anyone else who can help you?"

"Not really. I'm an old friend of Rick--uh, Richard's. Do you know where
I can reach him?"

The woman hesitated. "I'm new here," she said.

"But if you give me your name and where I can reach you, I'll try and
find out."

"Thanks." Lucy supplied her name and the hospital phone number, and hung
up. Extended sabbatical?

Don't jump to conclusions, she told herself. Perhaps Rick's keeping his
options open until he sees how things go at the IMA.

Well, she'd done all she could for the moment. She finished dictating
the E. coli report and brought it to the office for typing.

She had consults starting at three-thirty, and rounds at five. She
checked her messages often during the afternoon, and the fax machine,
too. But it wasn't until six that the page operator reached her with an
incoming call.

"Dr. Nash?" said a woman's voice. "This is the Stanford personnel
department returning your call.

Richard Hollander is doing some personal research at the IMA lab in New
York. Would you like the phone number there?"

Lucy dutifully took it down and thanked the woman for her trouble.

Well, that seems conclusive, she thought: Rick really is Richard
Hollander. Although his brief search of her apartment was still puzzling
and upsetting, she felt relieved that his identity, at least, was clear.
She was also rather embarrassed at having asked Barbara to fax her that
photo.

She finished making rounds and went back to her office to retrieve her
coat. She'd been silly to think that chromatography mistake Rick had
made had been significant, she decided. As a senior scientist. Rick
probably hadn't done his own chromatography in years; he had all those
grad students to do it for him. No doubt he was in the process of
getting divorced, too, just as he'd told her. And Barbara was a lousy
judge of height.

Chasing phantoms. And yet, his behavior on Saturday night had been
distinctly strange.

Carrying her coat, she went back to the office to sign out. "Half a
day?" Jake teased, coming in behind her.

"Very funny. Actually, I'm going down to the IMA lab for a little
while," she replied. "I have an experiment running, and I missed my
regular Thursday session last week."

"You work too hard."

Lucy laughed. "You should talk. You don't even have your coat on."

"Guilty as charged."

"Dr. Nash?" Pam, the office secretary, interrupted.

"That fax you were looking for all afternoon, the one from California?

It never came in, and I've got to leave."

"I'll be here awhile," Jake said. "I'll have the page operator give you
a jingle if it comes through. They have your number down there?"

"Yes. But it'll wait till tomorrow."

"Whatever you say." He peered at her through his black-rimmed glasses,
his dark eyes soft with concern.

"You look tired, kid. Don't drive yourself so hard."

"I'm okay, Jake."

"Sure you are." He gave her a bright smile, but his eyes were worried.

"Wait here until I'm inside, would you?"

"Sure, lady."

Lucy got out of the taxi, fishing for her cardkey. It was a little
creepy down here even during the day; at night, it felt downright
threatening. She unlocked the small steel door and went through it, then
turned and waved to the driver before swinging it shut behind her.

Jake's right, she thought, I'm pushing myself too hard. I don't really
need to be down here tonight. The cell cultures will wait. The elevator
arrived and Lucy stepped in, then hesitated, her finger poised above the
second-floor button. Never mind, she was here now.

She pressed the button and the door slid closed.

The second floor was quiet, but the lights were blazing.

As she neared Carl's office, she heard the faint click of computer keys.
So he was still at work. The lab space beyond seemed deserted, and she
felt a faint frisson of fear at the thought of being alone with Carl.

She edged quietly past his open door, darting a look inside. His back
was to her, his concentration on the screen. She continued past, glad he
hadn't realized she'd arrived. She'd be inside Level Four before he
even-She stopped. That hadn't been Carl Anders. Slowly, quietly, she
retraced her steps and peered in at the figure seated in front of Carl's
computer monitor.

Dark hair. Medium height. Broad shoulders. Rick Hollander.

Silently, she edged into the room, trying to make out the words on the
screen. He shifted in his seat and she froze, but he didn't turn around.
He hit some keys and the screen changed. Lucy moved closer.

Now she could just read the file names he was scanning through, and her
eyes grew big. Rick had called up Carl's peruvia files, and was
examining them, one by one. Off to one side sat the printer, powered up
and ready, a stack of printed pages already lying in its "out" bale.

As she watched. Rick called up the Search program and typed in a
command: second strain. How did he know the CDC had found a second
strain? she wondered.

And why would he think Carl would have a file on it? Anders had always
denied its existence. She watched as the Search program came up empty,
heard Rick's frustrated curse, saw him close the file. It was only then
that she realized they weren't Carl's files he was searching through,
but her own.

She backed out of the office, wondering about what she had just
witnessed. Industrial sabotage? Or something worse?

As she turned back toward the entrance hallway, Rick emerged from Carl's
office, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He caught sight of her and
stopped dead.

"Lucy?" She turned around and they stared at each other for a moment.

"Get your days mixed, doctor?" he asked, his tone light but his smile
stiff.

"I missed last Thursday," she said quickly. "I just wanted to check on
...  some things."

"Kind of late to be going into the hot lab," he offered.

"Not a good place to be when you're tired."

"You're working late yourself," she replied.

A pause. "Just doing some stuff for Carl." His eyes drifted to the
papers he held. "I'm just about, uh, finished. Want to grab some dinner?
I'll wait for you."

"I don't think so," she answered. "Thanks, anyway."

"Well, I guess I'll just finish up and, uh, get going."

He started for his lab, then stopped. "Maybe I should wait around for
you anyway, drive you home. It's not a good area to be wandering around
in, looking for a taxi."

"That's okay. I'll call a car service when I'm finished."

She made herself smile at him. "Go on home, Rick. I'll be fine."

"You're sure?" She nodded. "Well, okay."

Lucy watched him amble casually to his lab and disappear inside. She was
still standing there when he emerged moments later, wearing his brown
leather jacket and carrying a briefcase. "See you on Thursday," she
said, forcing her feet to start moving.

"I was hoping sooner," he replied. He touched her hair lightly with his
fingertips.

Saved by the beeper, she thought as it sang out, startling them both.

She stepped back from Rick and checked the number: the page operator.

"Excuse me," she said, retreating toward her lab. "This could be
important."

"I better wait," he said, "in case you need a ride to the hospital."

"Dr. Weiss said to tell you that fax you were waiting for came through,"
the page operator told her. "You want me to get him for you?"

"No," Lucy replied. "It'll wait until morning." With Rick's identity no
longer in question, the fax had lost its urgency for her. It wouldn't
explain his curiosity about her dresser or her files. She hung up and
sank into a chair, suddenly exhausted. There was no way she was going
into Level Four tonight.

"Last chance for a ride." Rick stuck his head around her open door.

"I think I'll stick around a while," she told him.

"Thanks anyway."

"Any time." Rick came and kissed the top of her head. "Don't stay too
late." He waited a moment and, getting no response, gave her a quizzical
look and withdrew.

Lucy listened to his footsteps retreat toward the elevator, then propped
her elbows on the desk and her chin on her hands, and thought about
computer files.

It was obvious that Carl's mysterious sangre negra data had been
intentionally deleted from the hard drive, and she'd always assumed that
Carl himself had been responsible. But now she wasn't so sure.

She'd never realized Rick had an interest in peruvia; he'd never
questioned her about it. Yet now she thought about it. Rick had already
been at work that morning she'd arrived early and discovered the files
gone. Anders's office had been dark. Was Rick, not Carl, responsible for
the disappearance of those locked files?

Was that another little job Rick had done for him?

Just what was Rick's sudden interest in the filovirus? she wondered.

And was it really so sudden?

How could he have learned about the second strain, since Anders refused
to acknowledge its existence?

And what did any of that have to do with his search for Jean's notebook
on Saturday night?

my god, the notebook, she thought. She'd forgotten to take it to the
bank today. She shuffled quickly through the exercise clothes in her gym
bag, sagging with relief when she felt it among her things.

Tomorrow, first thing, she told herself. How could she have forgotten?

She zipped up the bag and flipped through her address book for the
number of the car service.

Chapter Nineteen.

Lucy was waiting outside the bank when the guard came to unlock the
doors on Tuesday morning.

The safe-deposit vault opened at eight-thirty, and the departmental
conference started at nine. She knew she was cutting it close, but she
didn't want Jean's notebook in her possession one minute longer than
necessary.

She signed in, produced the key to her box, and followed the clerk
through the thick steel doorway into the vault. Together they unlocked
the numbered compartment door. Swinging it back, the clerk drew forth
the long metal box and carried it into one of the tiny client rooms,
closing the door behind him as he left.

She took the leather notebook from her pocket and set it on the counter,
then nipped open the box. A few pieces of her grandmother's jewelry, too
valuable to wear, too meaningful to sell. Some old family photos.

The deed to her co-op apartment. Several bonds she'd bought when she'd
started earning decent money. She tucked the notebook beneath the bond
certificates and reached for the lid of the box, then paused.

There was something else in there, too; something she might need.

Slowly she removed a bulky envelope.

Opening it, she withdrew a heavy object wrapped in an oily cloth that
gave off a pungent smell. She stood for a moment, inhaling the sharp,
distinctive scent, then slowly unfolded the cloth.

It looked just as it had when she'd put it there almost three years
before: sleek, dull black, deadly.

You're crazy, she told herself. Leave it where it is.

Her father had taught her how to use it when they were living in Texas.

She was twenty, home from college, and flirting with the idea of joining
the military.

They'd gone out into the scrub and set up tin cans, and her father had
given her a long lecture on gun safety before he'd let her so much as
touch it. Her mother had never liked having a firearm in the house, and
when he died, she was grateful to Lucy for offering to get rid of it.
She'd assumed Lucy would turn it in, or destroy it. She'd assumed wrong.

The gun was unlicensed, and Lucy knew she'd be unlikely to get one. It
was doubtful whether the Beretta 92F, with its fifteen-round magazine of
9mm shells and its muzzle velocity of 1,280 feet per second, would be
viewed by the authorities as a sport pistol.

She stared at it for a moment more, considering, then wrapped it up
again and put it back in its envelope.

From deep within the box she extracted several full ammunition clips,
slipping them in beside the weapon. Then she closed the safe-deposit
box, tucked the envelope into her commodious handbag, and told the vault
clerk she was ready to leave.

The meeting had already started as she entered the conference room.

Jake Weiss had saved a seat for her, and waved her over.

"You got my message about the fax?" he whispered.

"Yes, but I haven't picked it up yet. I just grabbed my report and came
straight here."

"That's what I figured." He pulled a sheet of paper from between the
files in front of him. "Here you go."

"Is this it? Thanks, Jake."

"No problem. An article by the boyfriend, huh?"

But Lucy didn't answer. Her eyes were fixed on the unfamiliar face
staring out at her from the page. Granted, the quality of the photo, a
three-quarters shot of a man standing on the steps of the University
library, was poor, made poorer still by the fax transmission.

The hair color looked about right, and the general build was similar.

But the face .. . People change, she reminded herself. The article was
dated some eight years before, the accompanying note from Barbara
apologizing for not having found anything more recent. People could
change a lot in eight years; he certainly seemed younger in the picture.
Younger and taller. Rick would have aged, she thought, but it was
unlikely that he would have grown.

The lights went out and the projection screen lit up.

A case was presented, and then another.. .. She tried to concentrate; it
would be her turn soon. But all she could think about was Rick at the
computer, reading her files.. .. Rick in her hallway, a knife in his
hand  ... But if Rick wasn't who he claimed to be, why would Stanford's
personnel department tell her Rick Hollander was working at the IMA? Why
was he working at the IMA, come to that?

She thought about how chummy he and Carl had become, how quick he'd been
to forgive Carl's insulting outburst. It didn't seem in character for
the sort of person Jake Weiss had described to her.

She felt Jake touch her arm. "Lucy? Your turn."

The department chairman was looking at her; everyone was. Forcing her
mind back to the business at hand, she opened her folder and took them
through her E. coli report. It seemed to go well.

After the meeting, she walked slowly back to her office, turning things
over in her mind. She thought of Carl wanting to scare her away from the
lab, of Rick searching her files to see what she knew about a second
peruvia strain. She thought about Crazy Ray's scars, and going to the
stars, and that Carl Anders had been involved with a mission with "star"
in its name.

Was it possible that Rick, or Carl, or maybe both of them together, were
using the IMA lab for their own purposes? And might those purposes
include infecting Ray and others like him with the filovirus she'd
brought back from Peru? The idea was horrifying, but also puzzling: Why
would they do such a thing? To what end?

She thought of Bill Miller, the armchair revolutionary--naive,
good-natured, and too trusting to realize what was going on right under
his nose.

Entering her office, she booted up her computer and began making notes.

Writing things down often helped organize her thinking. And God knew,
she needed to put some order into the multiplicity of questions that
were milling around in her head.

She typed furiously for several minutes, then stopped and read over what
she'd written. Okay, she thought: next steps.

talk to bill, she typed. No, too soon. She deleted the words and
substituted examine ray. He'd seemed semicoherent this morning; perhaps
tomorrow he'd recognize her. find star mission, she added.

then talk to bill. Yes, that was the order of march. Go to Bill with
facts, not guesswork. tell bill about rick. Good; she could do that
right now. No need to wait on that one, right? Wrong, she told herself.

Supposition again. Stanford's personnel department would back up Rick's
claim, and that would carry more weight with Bill than a blurry,
out-of-date photo.

Besides, Bill might tell Carl about her suspicions of Rick, and that
could be dangerous for her, especially if Carl and Rick had gone in
business together for themselves.

stop seeing rick was equally wrong, and she deleted it. If she was
careful, her relationship with him could be a vital conduit of
information. A dangerous game, perhaps, but only if he knew that she
knew that he-Her head hurt. She pulled a tin of aspirin from her desk
drawer and shook two tablets into her palm. She stood, contemplating the
screen. Keep it simple, she told herself. Examine Ray. Find the mission.
Keep your relationship with Rick going. Talk to Bill Miller when you're
sure of your facts and can prove them.

Good. Right. Okay.

She selected everything, hit the delete key, and went out into the hall
to get some water for the aspirin.

Carl Anders ripped away the tape and entered the abandoned ward. He wore
a full bodysuit: boots, gloves, helmet. The formaldehyde gas should have
done its work by now, but until he checked the papers, he couldn't be
positive. Even after he'd seen with his own eyes that the subtilis niger
on every paper was dead, he wouldn't be positive, only reasonably sure.

He picked up the samples in his thick double gloves, and carried them to
the makeshift workstation. He was keenly aware of the air around him,
heavy with the thick scent of decontamination, but his air supply was
self-contained and he couldn't smell or taste it.

He spent a long time at the portable microscope he'd brought. Finally,
satisfied that the room was as clean as he could make it, he hit a
switch and started the ventilation system that would pump the sickly,
telltalescented air out into the building's closed respiratory system
where it would be sterilized yet again, stripped of its odor, and
returned. Within twenty-four hours, the formaldehyde would be only a
whisper in the air around him. He fervently hoped that the filovirus
that had once lived here would not be that even.

Rosetti pulled out a chair and sat down. "I'm glad you chose some place
new," he said with a lopsided grin. "People were beginning to talk." He
reached for the lager the older man had ordered in anticipation of his
arrival. "You want to go first, or shall I?"

"Be my guest."

"Jean-Pierre Dither--that doctor who was arrested with the heroin?

Turns out, he was an art smuggler.

Specialized in valuable ancient artifacts. Sold them through a few
galleries that weren't too particular about their provenance. And I know
what it was she took from his apartment: a notebook listing the
galleries and sales."

"Good work. You have it?"

"No, but it doesn't matter anymore, at least not for our purposes.

Dither's out of business, and so is one of his fences, guy named Beno
Stanislas. Stabbed."

"And you said we wouldn't have anything to talk about." His companion
sipped his drink. "I want that notebook, Mike."

"Look, the art smuggling's a red herring. It's not even connected to the
IMA, except that Miller may have bought some stuff through Stanislas."

"And you don't think that's significant? What if Miller realized what
Dither was doing? What if he figured out that the stuff he was buying
from what'shis-name--"

"Stanislas."

"--had been smuggled in by one of his own doctors, putting the IMA at
risk?"

Rosetti shrugged. "Miller would have been appalled. And he would have
fired Dither, or whatever you do to get rid of a volunteer. End of
story." His companion eyed him noncommittally. "You think otherwise?

Miller's a highly respected doctor, Tom. Besides, Dither committed
suicide, remember? It's your turn, now. Was I right about depalma?"

"Bingo. That place she was born in, Villarosa? It's in Sicily. And guess
who else was born in Villarosa?

Joseph Tortoriello's grandfather Paolo."

"Mafia."

"Right. Oh, and Count depalma's title wasn't inherited.

It was purchased. The present count was formerly known as Luciano
Salerno. Came here from Sicily as a boy; deported twenty years ago for
criminal activities."

"Renee's a big contributor to the IMA,'" Rossetti said meditatively,
"and a pal of Miller's. But the mob doesn't usually use women. So what's
the connection?"

"You tell me, Mike."

"Wish I could."

"Oh, there's one more thing I think will interest you. Someone's been
calling Stanford recently, asking about Richard Hollander."

Rosetti frowned. "Who?"

"Dr. Lucy Nash."

"Oh, shit."

"Indeed. Of course, we handled it. Told her Hollander was on sabbatical,
doing private research at the IMA lab." He paused. "But I think we have
trouble there."

"She's the one who's in trouble," Rossetti said slowly. "If she's
starting to question Hollander, it's going to be a lot harder to protect
her."

"Oh, I think she's more dangerous to us than we are to her. She's part
of the IMA, she works in Level Four. She's got to be one of the inner
circle."

But Rosetti shook his head. "I don't think so, Tom.

I'm sure she has no idea what's really going on."

"Then that makes three of us."

"Yes, but she found the notebook. And she's already been threatened by
Anders ...  I think she's in real danger." He sighed deeply. "And now we
can't protect her anymore."

Chapter Twenty.

The oranges looked good. She selected three, adding them to the small
roast chicken, French baguette, and assorted vegetables in her shopping
basket, and took it all over to the cashier.

"Stocking up?" the clerk asked as Lucy dug in her handbag for her
wallet. "They're forecasting five, six inches tomorrow."

"So I heard. But they've been wrong before," she added hopefully.

"Feels like snow, though."

"It does." Lucy pocketed her change and took her groceries out into the
cold, dark, Wednesday evening.

Ordinarily, the thought of a snowstorm would have evoked cozy images of
hot chocolate and cuddling with Rick. But these were not ordinary times.

"Hi, doc. Help me get something to eat?"

Lucy spun around as Ray shuffled out of a recessed doorway, his cup held
out. "Sure, Ray," she said quickly, reaching for the change in her
pocket. "You know who I am?"

Ray frowned. "Course I do. You're the doc." He watched carefully as
coins cascaded into his cup.

"Where you been?"

"I've been working," Lucy replied, refraining from reminding him that
he'd been the one who hadn't been all there lately. "Uh, do you remember
what we talked about last time?" Ray shook his head and began to move
off. "I have more money for you," she called after him.

"Lots more."

That stopped him. Cautiously he extended the cup again, but Lucy shook
her head. "First I want to buy you a meal. You like Mcdonald's, don't
you?"

"Sure."

"Well, come on. Aren't you hungry? I am."

But Ray stood confused. "You want me to go with you? Inside?"

"Of course, inside. It's too cold out here. I want to talk to you."

Gently she led him to the restaurant and through the glass doors, and
settled him at a table.

People glared pointedly at them, but she stared fiercely back and they
looked away. "You stay here and I'll get the food. What would you like?"

When she returned with the loaded tray. Ray had shed his anorak and
unwound a filthy scarf from around his neck. He attacked the food with
vigor, and Lucy forced herself to eat some of her burger.

"Last time I saw you, you had a sort of rash on your neck," she said.

"I have some salve in my office that will make it feel better. Could I
look at it?"

Ray paused in mid-bite. "You want to look at my neck?"

"That's right. I'm the doc, remember?"

Ray shrugged. "Okay."

Lucy rose and went around to where he sat. Gently she pulled back the
grimy shirt collar. The crescent scars were unmistakable. Trying
desperately to control her facial expression, she went back to her seat.
"I have the perfect medicine for that rash," she said. "In my office at
the hospital."

"It doesn't bother me," he said.

"I don't want it to get worse," she answered, but he didn't seem to hear
her. He pushed away the empty cardboard burger container and started on
his pie. It wasn't a very large pie; she didn't have much time.

"If you come back to my office with me now," she said, "I'll pay you ten
dollars."

He looked up at her, his lips smeared with cherry juice, his pale eyes
large. "Ten dollars?"

"That's right."

Ray scowled. "That's a lot of money. What do I have to do for it?"

"Well, we're, um, doing a study on, uh, neck rashes," Lucy improvised.

"A special study. We examine people's necks, and, er, then we give them
a little checkup, and we pay them for their, uh, time. And then we write
about it."

"No kidding?" He popped the last of the pie into his mouth and looked at
her with interest. "You'll pay me ten dollars just for looking at my
neck?"

"Yes, I will. But you have to come with me right now. In a taxi."

"Where we going?"

Stay with me. Ray, she prayed. "We're going to my office at the
hospital. That's where we do the study.

That's where we keep the money."

"Don't need no hospital," he said. "Already been there."

"This is a different hospital," she said patiently.

"And it's just for a few minutes. I bet they didn't pay you ten dollars
at that other hospital."

"They paid me twenty," Ray said. He dabbed at some fallen pie crumbs
with a forefinger and licked them off, glancing up to see if she was
buying it.

"We usually only pay ten," she replied, "but I guess we could pay you
twenty." She tried to remember how much cash she had with her. She
supposed she could borrow some at the hospital. "Are you finished
eating?"

"Could you make it twenty-five?" he asked hopefully.

Lucy sighed. "Okay, Ray. Twenty-five. But only if you come with me right
now."

He got up and began winding the scarf around his neck. "Okay," he said.
"I sure can use thirty dollars."

"Twenty-five."

"Right." He struggled into his jacket and followed her outside into the
cold.

The first taxi she flagged down pulled away as soon as the driver saw
she meant to take Crazy Ray with her. She got the door of the second cab
open and Ray inside before the angry Middle Easterner at the wheel knew
what was happening.

"You shouldn't take him in a regular taxi," he protested in broken
English. "It is not fair. My car is clean. Is not for him."

Lucy was unsympathetic. "Drive," she ordered firmly.

It was after six, and the hospital was drawing a deep breath in
preparation for the evening onslaught. An ambulance was pulling up
outside the ER as Lucy guided Ray through the front entrance and around
to the elevators. They passed through a hallway leading to one of the
ORS, and Ray shied at the sight of several gowned and masked surgical
technicians striding purposefully past. But once they were in the
infectious diseases corridor, things quieted down, and so did Ray.

She led him past her office and into a small examining room. "Why don't
you sit up here on the table?" she suggested, but Ray shook his head and
plunked himself down into a chair to one side. She put her medical bag
up on the small desk, suddenly realizing she'd left her groceries in the
taxi. Never mind, she thought; even at twenty-five dollars for Ray and
ninefifty for groceries, it was cheap at the price.

"It'll be a lot easier if you sit up here on the table," she told Ray.

He eyed her cannily. "Thirty bucks?"

"Twenty-five's all I've got." She paused. "Tell you what: I'll pay you
another five if you'll get up on the table. And if you let me draw some
blood."

Ray got up. "I'm outta here," he said firmly.

"Okay, okay, no blood. How about a chest X ray?"

"What you need a X ray for?" he asked suspiciously.

"It's part of the little checkup I told you about."

He studied her. "Okay, but no blood."

"Deal." Still scowling. Ray climbed up on the table and Lucy called down
to Radiology to say she'd need an emergency chest film taken in ten
minutes.

"Emergency?" Ray asked.

"I just said that so you could go home sooner," she told him. "You don't
want to hang around this hospital, do you?"

"Hey, how'm I gonna get home?" he asked, it having suddenly occurred to
him that he had no idea where he was.

"I'll pay for a taxi to drive you. Unbutton your shirt for me, please."

Lucy checked the scars again, wishing fervently for a blood sample, not
so much to convince herself of her supposition, but to be able to prove
it to Bill. Then she listened to Ray's chest and lungs, and checked his
blood pressure. A slight wheeze in the left lung.

Strong, regular heartbeat. Pulse slightly elevated, but that would be
nerves.

"You finished yet, doc?"

"Just about." Lucy made notes on the examination form, and looked at the
scars one more time. "Okay, get dressed and we'll go down to X ray."

"When do I get my money?"

"After the X ray." And after I borrow ten bucks from the X ray
technician. She packed up her medical bag and took him down to the
subbasement via the back elevator. Radiology was in another wing of the
hospital, and the basement corridor that ran beneath both buildings was
the most direct route.

"Spooky down here," Ray said. "Where we at?"

"We're underneath the hospital," she explained.

"Where we going?"

"To X ray." They walked in silence for a few minutes.

Several nurses, hurrying past, barely glanced at them. "That hospital
you were in, before," Lucy said "It was called 'star' something?"

"Yeah, stars. It was inside a big star."

"Inside a star? I thought you said it was called 'star."

"

"Star, yeah."

"Do you remember what was the matter with you?"

Lucy pressed. "Did they tell you what you had?"

"What I had?" Ray thought for a moment. "I was sick."

"I know you were sick," Lucy said impatiently.

Then, more gently, she added, "Did they tell you the name of the
sickness?"

"Yeah. But I don't remember. P-something." Jesus, Lucy thought
excitedly. "Peruvia?" she asked, trying to calm her voice. "Was it
called peruvia?"

But Ray shook his head. "Nope, that wasn't it. P- something .. . a P and
a T .. . Some kinda letters."

Lucy racked her brain; what could he mean? "TB?" she asked at last.

"Is that it? Did you have TB?"

"Yeah, yeah, that was it." His face brightened with recognition. "It was
TB."

She considered. Tuberculosis was certainly possible, at least in theory.
Several types of TB were on the rise among the city's homeless. But
peruvia scars sure as hell weren't.

She thought about the symptoms of peruvia and wondered how anyone could
confuse the disease with tuberculosis. Sure, both infections presented
with fever and a cough. Sure, some forms of TB produced a rash. But
there the similarities stopped. The hemorrhaging, the bloody eyes, the
gradual liquefaction of the internal organs, all these were symptoms no
tubercular bacillus had ever dreamt of. The chest X ray was vital, she
realized. The chest X ray would prove Ray hadn't had TB.

Unfortunately, it couldn't prove conclusively that he'd had peruvia.

Only a blood test could do that.

"How much more would I have to pay you to draw some blood?" she asked.

Ray stopped, then started walking backward, away from her. "You said no
blood."

"I'll pay you extra."

"No blood. Going home now."

She went after him quickly. "Okay, okay. No blood.

I promise. Just the X ray." Stupid, stupid, she berated herself. "No
blood. Look"--she reached into her handbag--"here's the money. Don't you
want the money?" Damn, I need that chest film. It took her a few minutes
to quiet and reassure him, but at last she managed to coax him into a
slow shamble in the direction of the radiology department.

"Be about twenty minutes," the technician told her.

"He can sit over there." Despite the hour, some eight people were ranged
in chairs around the waiting room.

"Can I see you a moment?" Lucy took the technician aside. "I'm Dr. Nash,
from Infectious Diseases. I just called down?" The man nodded.

"Look, there's no way I can keep that guy waiting around here for twenty
minutes. He'll simply bolt. You've got to take him next.

Please." The man looked around her at the raggedy man with the bleary
eyes. "All I need is a couple of chest films," she continued. "It's
important.

I need them stat. Oh, and can I borrow ten dollars till tomorrow?"

Clutching the manila envelope containing the X rays, Lucy got Ray, now
cloudy-eyed and growing confused, into a taxi, and shoved some money in
the driver's hand. "Take him to Second and Seventy-fifth," she said.

"Just let him out on the corner."

"What if he won't get out?" the driver asked reasonably.

It was warm in the car, and the seats were soft.

She thought for a moment, then opened the back door. "Ray? I'm giving
the driver an extra five dollars.

He'll take you to Mcdonald's, and when you get out of the taxi, he'll
give you the money. Okay?"

Ray mumbled an assent, and Lucy pushed a five through the driver's
window. She stood for a moment, watching them pull away, then carried
the envelope back up to her office.

She'd had a quick look at the films on the radiology lightbox before she
and Ray had left. No tubercular nodules, no scarring; nothing that would
indicate TB.

Not that she'd expected any. No, what had shaken her was that, despite
the crescent scars on his neck. Ray's lungs showed no evidence of the
sort of damage peruvia always inflicted, to a greater or lesser degree,
on soft tissue, even in survivors.

She sat in her darkened office, the room illuminated only by the spill
from the light box on her wall, staring at the films. How could Ray have
peruvia scars if he hadn't had peruvia?

Chapter Twenty-one.

She woke the next morning with a renewed sense of purpose. The promised
snow had not yet developed, but excited TV meteorologists were assuring
everyone it was on its way. Lucy grabbed a pair of boots from the hall
closet as she headed out the door. She'd planned to hit the gym for half
an hour on the way to the hospital, but had overslept. Now she hurried
down the street, checking her watch and praying for a taxi, and hoping
she wouldn't be late for rounds.

It was Thursday, her day for the IMA lab, but a series of new admits
forced her to call Carl and cancel her session there for the second time
in a row. On the one hand, she felt a little guilty; she didn't approve
of taking on a job and not following through. On the other, she felt
relieved. Working in Level Four was exhausting, and she wanted to use
whatever reserves her hospital day left her with, to do a little
sleuthing.

By four in the afternoon, the pace had slowed somewhat.

She grabbed a sandwich and some juice from the cafeteria--her first food
since morning--and took them back to her desk, collecting a NYNEX Yellow
Pages from the department office on the way.

Taking a bite of sandwich, she opened the book to "Hospitals" and ran
her finger down the list. Only one, Morningstar Medical Center, a small
facility in Yonkers, sounded promising. She wrote its address on a piece
of note paper, and paged through to "Missions."

Here there were many suggestive names: Angel Memorial House, God's
Lighthouse, Le Candela. But no stars; not even an estrella. She turned
to "Shelters," wondering what had possessed the phone company to create
a separate category for this while lumping together under the previous
heading the Nepal Mission to the U.N. and Grace Faith Church.

"Shelters" boasted only three entries, two of which held no significance
to her. The third was Star of Hope Mission, with a downtown address.

She copied it out, then leaned back in her chair, notepaper in hand, and
tried to decide which one to start with. Morningstar Medical Center
would be better equipped to treat TB. For that matter, a mission
shouldn't be treating a bunch of TB patients at all.

But Ray didn't have TB, she reminded herself. And Morningstar was way up
in Yonkers. It was unlikely, though not impossible, that Ray had
wandered up there on his own.

On his own .. . She seemed to recall that the homeless people in her
neighborhood had all disappeared about the same time. Maybe they hadn't
wandered anywhere. Maybe they'd been collected.

By Morningstar Medical Center? Or by Star of Hope Mission?

Beyond her window, tiny flakes had begun to fall, making her decision
for her. It would be folly to try to get up to Yonkers and back in a
snowstorm. She stood and went to the window, craning to get a look at
the sidewalks below. The snow was still very light.

She could grab a cab downtown and have a quick look around. It might be
hard to get a taxi back, especially if the blizzard materialized, but
the buses might still be running. Besides, she had her boots and heavy
coat; she could walk back if she had to.

Taxies were still plentiful outside the hospital as she came out into
the cold, wet evening. "Can't take the West Side Highway," the driver
told her as they pulled away. "Accident. Roadway's getting slick."

"Well, go the best way you know," Lucy told him, settling back. Lost in
her thoughts, she was barely conscious of where they were until the cab
skidded around a corner. "Where are we?" she asked, looking up.

The flakes were falling faster now, and the street was dark.

"Nearly there," the driver said, slowing down. "Just around the corner."

Lucy nodded, and began to fish in her wallet, then stopped and stared
out the window, suddenly realizing where they were. She turned and saw,
disappearing behind them, a small, dimly illuminated steel door.

They had just passed the IMA lab.

The cab turned one corner, then another. "It's a real maze down here,"
the driver complained. "End up driving around in circles, with all these
one-way streets. That where you're going?"

Ahead, a giant blue star shed an eerie light in a wide arc across the
newfallen snow. It's like a mirage, Lucy thought, or a vision. No wonder
Ray had told her he'd lived in a star.

star of hope read the flaking gilt sign above the door. Lucy got out and
stood looking up at the brick building. Because she'd always taken the
West Side Highway downtown, she'd never approached the IMA lab from this
direction. And the garage where Rick kept his car was over toward the
river, too. The taxi had made two right turns after passing the IMA lab;
she must be on the street behind it. She glanced left and right, trying
to orient herself, realizing that the IMA lab and Star of Hope would be
more or less back-to-back. She felt a chill that had nothing to do with
the snow that was coating her hair and shoulders.

She hesitated for a moment, then pushed open the mission door and went
inside.

A fog of heat and food and unwashed bodies rolled toward her as she
started up the bleak hallway. A line of people shuffled slowly up to and
through an archway to the right, where an overworked man in a soiled
apron was ladling steaming stew onto white plastic plates.

"May I help you?" Lucy turned. A severe-looking woman with kind eyes
stood beside her. Taking in the clean coat, the boots, the face, the
handbag, she added, "I assume you're not here for the meal."

"No, I've come to help."

The woman surveyed her, frowning. "I don't understand.

You're not one of our regulars." Her accent was soft but distinctive.

German? Lucy wondered.

Dutch?

"No, I ... I live around here." A number of loft buildings had been
turned into residential housing, some legal, some not. In any event, the
lie was believable.

"I've often passed this way," Lucy continued, "and thought about
volunteering. And then tonight, with the snow, I figured maybe some of
your regular people wouldn't show up, and .. ." She smiled and gave a
little helpless shrug. "Anyway, I'm here."

The woman studied her for a moment, then smiled.

"You were right," she said. "We can use some help tonight. One of our
servers and an overnight volunteer have both canceled. I am Sister
Margareta. What is your name?"

"Lucy," Lucy said. "Lucy Nash."

Lucy thought she saw a flash of recognition in the woman's eyes. But her
tone, when she spoke, was impersonal.

"Come with me, please," she said, leading her toward the serving table.

"Jonathan will show you what to do."

He pushed open the door and flicked on the light.

The ventilation system had been going full blast for two days now, and
the air was smelling pretty good.

He jerked up the master switch and the loud whoosh of the exhaust fans
fell silent. He could still recognize the faint, sickly odor of the
formaldehyde gas that had worked its way inside the desk drawers and
cabinets and joins in the linoleum flooring. The last of the odor would
take a while longer to dissipate completely, but that was to be
expected.

He wandered around, checking for anything he might have missed. The
bleach had removed the telltale smears of blood and feces from walls and
floors.

The long electrical cord had been taken up, stored away with the frying
pans and boxes of crystals. The staff, those who'd survived, had been
paid off handsomely, and sent back to the far-flung locations from which
they'd been carefully, and separately, recruited.

The families of the less-fortunate nurses and orderlies had received
letters, purportedly from their kin, telling of high-paying new
positions in Europe and Asia.

The room was ready." But he doubted it would be needed again. His
results were complete and conclusive.

They could move to the next stage now. They were ready.

"You guys were pretty lucky with that TB thing," Lucy said casually,
placing a slice of bread and a square of butter on the plate Jonathan
passed her, and handing it to the next person in line.

"What TB thing?" Jonathan frowned, concentrating on the pot of stew in
front of him.

"All those homeless people who got sick. I knew one of them, a guy who
hangs around my neighborhood.

He told me."

The server looked over at her. "Don't know what you're talking about,"
he said. "No TB here." He passed her another plateful. "You must be
thinking of some other place."

"No, it was here. My friend told me about the star outside. Said he got
sick and you took care of him.

Other people, too." She hesitated. "The nursing staff must be pretty
good here, huh?"

Jonathan looked away. "Don't know what you mean," he murmured. "No TB
here."

"Well, maybe he was wrong about the TB. But he did get sick here. And
you did make him better."

"Not me," the man said with finality. "I didn't have nothing to do with
it."

"Dr. Anders? It's Margareta. That colleague of yours, the one you said
might be stopping by? She's here. I didn't say anything to her, as you
instructed."

Margareta paused. It seemed funny that Dr. Nash's dear friend Carl
Anders wanted to surprise her if she showed up. It also seemed funny
that Dr. Nash wouldn't identify herself as a doctor, nor mention Carl.

Well, the IMA had been very good to the mission.

Her predecessor had told her how the IMA had arranged for the repair of
the building's crumbling rear addition several years before, enlarging
the small shelter from ten beds to twenty-two, creating a storage room,
and renovating the antiquated bathrooms and showers. And Dr. Miller had
been so helpful and supportive during the TB outbreak. No, the IMA's
internal affairs were none of her business. "It's about six, now, and
I'm not sure how long she's planning to stay.

But you said to call you, so that's what I'm doing. I hope you get this
message." She hung up the phone and went out to see how Lucy was getting
on.

Carl entered the small laboratory and headed for the computer terminal.

Yes, everything was on schedule, he thought with satisfaction. All that
remained was to change the mode of transmission. He lowered his suited
body carefully onto a metal stool and typed a command on the keyboard.
The screen changed, and changed again, as his lightly gloved fingers
flew across the keys, creating computer models of gene sequences.

On the counter some six feet away from where he sat, the red message
light on his telephone blinked rapidly.

Specially built for use inside the hot lab, the sealed instrument could
access messages left on his office answering machine, transmitting them
via a microphone tie-in to the headset in his helmet. Ordinary phone
conversations could be carried on the same way.

Carl worked for several more minutes before the red glow caught his eye.
He punched the replay button and listened intently. Then, with a muffled
curse, he rose quickly and ran for the decon shower. Behind him, the
computer screen glowed in the dim blue light.

Jonathan carried the large serving pot into the kitchen while Lucy went
around the dining room filling the large black trash bags with used
plates and cups and plastic cutlery.

"How are you getting on?" Margareta asked, appearing at her side.

"Have they had the fruit cocktail yet?"

"No, Jonathan's gone to get it. I'm just clearing up a little."

"Let me help you." Together they moved among the tables, the sister
smiling and greeting her shabby guests with the graciousness of a
hostess at a fancy dinner party.

"I understand you had an outbreak of TB here recently," Lucy remarked as
they worked.

"TB?" Margareta shook her head. "Here? Who told you such a thing?"

"A .. . friend of mine was .. . involved," Lucy replied carefully.

The sister relaxed. Carl had explained that this Lucy Nash he was half
expecting was his colleague. Since Carl had obviously seen fit to tell
Dr. Nash about the TB outbreak, it seemed silly for Margareta to
continue denying it. "It's true," she confided, lowering her voice.

"We were given a special permit to keep them here, poor things. We set
up a complete quarantine in the shelter area, and of course we took
extreme precautions. And God blessed our efforts. We had a one hundred
percent recovery."

"Really? Isn't that wonderful," Lucy exclaimed, wondering whether the
sister was lying, or simply misinformed.

A one hundred percent recovery from peruvia was impossible; even a fifty
percent recovery was unlikely. "And how did you first identify--"

"Everybody stay seated, please, and we'll bring around the dessert,"
Jonathan announced, interrupting her. "Lucy, can you give me a hand
here?"

"Go on," Margareta told her, tying the trash bag shut. "I must see to
the shelter. We have only twenty-two beds," she added regretfully.

"Such a terrible night to have to turn people away."

Lucy took the tray Jonathan thrust toward her and quickly distributed
the small bowls of canned fruit, her mind on other things. Had Margareta
really believed the patients she'd quarantined in her shelter had been
ill with tuberculosis? On the other hand, it seemed impossible that she
would knowingly harbor a lethal pathogen here in the mission, even under
tight quarantine conditions. Besides, no ordinary quarantine would be
tight enough to contain peruvia. Extreme precautions, Margareta had
said. Did that mean orange RACAL suits?

Was that what Ray had been referring to when he talked about golden
angels?

Now that the sister had confirmed the outbreak of what they'd both
referred to as TB, Lucy was anxious to probe further, but when she went
out into the corridorin search of Margareta, the sister had disappeared.

Lucy went back to the dining room. The guests were spooning in the
fruit, joking with Jonathan as he went from table to table collecting
the salt and pepper shakers.

"Would you put these away?" he asked Lucy.

"Sure." She took the box of shakers and went through the dining room to
the tiny kitchen. The entrance was fairly well blocked by several large,
black garbage bags. Inside, a young man stood at a stainless-steel sink,
scrubbing an aluminum cooking pot. "Why don't I get this trash out of
here?" she offered, reaching around to set the box of shakers on a
counter.

"Good idea," the dishwasher replied. "Coupla bins out front. Just stick
'em in and put the top on tight.

Better take your coat. It's snowing pretty hard out there."

Sorry she'd suggested it, Lucy put on her coat and boots and dragged the
bags to the front door. Several inches of fresh, undisturbed snow,
bright blue with the reflection of the giant neon star, covered the
sidewalk in front of the mission. She trekked across it to the plastic
bins and crammed the bags in, feeling the snow settle wetly on her hair
and cheeks and eyelashes.

Behind her, the door opened and the erstwhile guests, all but a lucky
twenty-two, streamed out into the frosty night. At the end of the
procession came the dishwasher, waving good night to her as he buttoned
his coat.

"Bad night out there." Jonathan stood just inside the door, her
oversized bag in his hand. "Is this yours?

You shouldn't leave it around."

"Thanks." Lucy took the proffered handbag. "And I had some shoes--"

"They're in there. You can put that in Margareta's office if you're
staying the night."

"I don't know about all night," Lucy answered, "but I'll stay as long as
I can."

"Fair enough. Leave your stuff with Margareta and come on back to the
dining room. After we finish up in there, we'll get out the blankets and
pillows."

"Okay." Still wearing her coat and boots, Lucy started down the long
corridor. She hoped Margareta would be alone when she dropped off her
things, so they could talk some more. But Margareta wasn't alone.

From behind her closed office door came the murmur of voices. Lucy
raised her fist to knock, then froze.

"I got your message," Carl Anders was saying.

"Where is she?"

"Working in the dining room, I believe," Margareta answered. "And what a
night she chose to turn up.

Two inches already, and still--"

"Never mind the weather," Carl said.

"What is she doing here?"

"She helped with the dinner, that's all." Margareta sounded surprised.

"Such a charming young woman.

But I was surprised that you'd told her about the TB outbreak. I realize
she's a colleague of yours, but--"

"What? She knows about that?"

"Well, yes. She said a friend of hers had been involved and I naturally
assumed  ..."

Where had Carl come from? Lucy wondered. The snow in front of the
mission had been unmarked when she'd gone to the trash bins. Was there a
back door?

But why would Carl come in the back way? She looked down at the linoleum
tiles in front of Margareta's partly closed door; they were perfectly
dry. The only wet footprints were her own. Carl had come from somewhere
inside the mission. Interesting .. .

"I'll go and get her," Carl was saying. "You wait out in the hall, in
case she tries to leave."

Lucy bristled; how dare he? Did he really think he could prevent her
from leaving? What did he possibly imagine he could do to stop her?

Then she thought of the deserted streets outside and recalled his
whispered threat that if he wanted to kill her, he wouldn't miss.

Who knew what he was prepared to do? Still, Margareta wouldn't allow him
to harm her.

"But I don't understand," the sister was protesting.

"I thought she was a colleague of yours."

Carl's reply was low and Lucy moved closer, concentrating on his voice.

"She's an impostor," she heard him explain. "I didn't tell you the truth
because I didn't want you to frighten her away. But she's ..

.

not really a doctor; she only thinks she is. She gets .. .

confused. She's been institutionalized a number of times, but the psych
units are so overcrowded  ..."

Good one, Carl, Lucy thought. Now there was no way Margareta would
believe anything she might say.

Unnoticed, Jonathan appeared from the dining room.

He went straight to the front door, flipped the lock shut, and shot the
large steel bolt mounted high up on the door frame before disappearing
back into the dining room.

"Poor girl," Margareta was saying. "She seemed so nice."

"She isn't a bad person," Carl agreed. "She just needs help. These
delusions of hers usually pass in a few days. I've brought a sedative.

After we've calmed her, perhaps she could stay with you for a while."

"Of course. I'll help any way I can," Margareta assured Carl.

Time to go, Lucy decided, and ran to the front door.

She pulled at it to no avail, then looked up and saw the shot bolt, just
out of reach.

Behind her, she heard a chair scrape back and realized she'd left it too
late. In a moment, he'd come out into the hallway. She was at his mercy.

Or was she? Carl had come into the mission with dry feet. If he'd gotten
in, she could get out. The mission and the IMA lab must be connected
somehow.

But where? The buildings were back-to-back, she reminded herself, so
Carl must have come in from the rear of the mission.

As Margareta's door swung open, Lucy raced back down the corridor toward
the sleeping area, praying they'd come out facing in the opposite
direction, toward the front door and the dining room.

"I hope we will not have a problem," Margareta was saying.

Lucy stood in an agony of indecision. Behind her was the sleeping room.
To the right were the bathrooms.

To the left was a brown door marked employees only. She'd only get one
crack at this. She flipped a mental coin, turned left, and pushed
through the brown door.

She was facing a wall. A short, narrow hallway on her right ran back
toward the rear of the building, and she turned and followed it to its
end, stepping down into a small, modern addition, low ceilinged, dimly
lit, and filled with junk. Folding beds, a broken chair, and similar
discards filled half the space, and cartons of old clothing, books, and
miscellany were stacked haphazardly here and there. A wide wooden
wardrobe, its green paint peeling, stood against one wall; a steamer
trunk leaned drunkenly against it. Set into the opposite wall was a
modern closet with sliding doors.

She opened them and found the blankets and pillows Jonathan had spoken
of. I guessed wrong, she thought despondently. This room's too well used
to house a secret passageway. I should have chosen the bathrooms.

Now what? She could go back and face Carl, brazen it out, and try to get
Jonathan to unbolt the front door. She had her hospital identification
in her handbag.

But Carl had more credence than she, and he'd say her badge was a fake.
Margareta and Jonathan would do as he told them, restraining her while
he injected the sedative. Or whatever it was he'd brought with him.

Good idea, getting that gun out of the vault, she told herself
sarcastically. It's real useful, hidden under your damn mattress. Not
that she could quite picture herself shooting her way out of the Star of
Hope Mission.

She sat on a carton and looked around. Jonathan would be coming in for
the blankets soon. She got up again and paced to the short hallway she'd
come down, then turned back. For a storage room in constant use, it
certainly was a mess. The area in front of the blanket closet was more
or less clear, but the rest of the floor space was practically obscured.
And how did they ever manage to get to that wardrobe over there, the one
with the two large, heavy-looking cartons in front of it? She wandered
over and inspected the cartons. They were filled to the brim, their
unseen contents topped with crumpled newspaper, but when she pushed one,
it moved easily. They're empty, she thought in some surprise.

And there was something about the way those cartons were positioned in
front of the wardrobe that bothered her, too. She pulled them out of the
way and opened the door. The few items of clothing that hung there had
been shoved to one side.

She stepped inside and felt along the back wall.

Solid. Right wall: solid. Left wall: missing. Missing?

With growing excitement, Lucy felt around the opening in the left side
of the closet and found the hinged panel. Carl must have left it open in
his hurry to confront her.

She got out again and studied the exterior of the wardrobe. It was some
three feet wider on the outside than it was on the inside. She retrieved
her handbag, then pushed the cartons as close to the wardrobe as she
could while still being able to open the door.

Squeezing between them, she stepped back into the wardrobe and fumbled
with the door, discovering it was double-hinged to swing in as well as
out. She swung it in.

The large, heavy-looking cartons had been camouflage, easy to shove
aside when getting in or out of the wardrobe. She reached out and pulled
them right up against the wardrobe, then swung the door back into place.
In total darkness, she bent and stepped through the open panel,
stumbling as she encountered the first in a series of high, narrow
stairs.

Chapter Twenty-two.

"She took out the trash," Jonathan said, "and then I told her to put her
handbag in your office, sister. That's the last I saw of her."

"She must have gone," Margareta said. "When you went back into the
dining room."

But Jonathan shook his head. "I asked could she stay the night, and she
said she'd stay as long as she could. Didn't sound like she was going
right then."

"She heard us," Carl fumed. "She was outside your office"--he turned
toward Margareta accusingly-"and she heard me warning you about her."

"Yeah? What's she done?" Jonathan asked.

"She's a confused woman who needs our help," the sister told him
severely. "She must have slipped out," she said, turning back to Carl,
"while we were talking."

But Carl appeared unconvinced. "She could be hiding somewhere," he said.
"Jonathan, you search in there." He gestured toward the examination and
infirmary rooms. "Margareta, the bathrooms and showers."

"Maybe we should just let her alone," the sister suggested. "She didn't
seem particularly dangerous."

"Yeah," Jonathan agreed. "Hunting her down like this seems awfully--"

"Necessary," Carl interjected. "Remember, she thinks she's a doctor.

You have overnight guests. Suppose she takes it into her head to 'treat'
one of them."

Margareta's eyes grew big. "I didn't think of that."

Carl watched them fan out, then followed the sister to the rear of the
building and stuck his head inside the shelter. Empty. He withdrew it
and turned toward the employees only door. If she'd gone in there .

.

.

Stupid, he rebuked himself. Stupid, stupid.

They'd disagreed about building the hidden stairway as part of the
renovation, but he'd insisted. What if something went wrong with the
treatment? he'd argued.

What if the mission staff got wind of what they were doing? They
couldn't simply drag the bodies out the front door. He'd prevailed.

But at that moment, he wished he hadn't.

He shoved through the door and strode down the hallway toward the
storage room. My own fault, he berated himself. I shouldn't have
panicked. Shouldn't have been in such a hurry; should have gone the long
way round. Fortunately, Margareta hadn't noticed the old coat he'd
grabbed from one of the cartons to make it seem as if he'd come from
outside. Stupid, stupid.

God, how he hated that damn Lucy Nash.

The stairs led upward through the blackness. She stumbled, bruising a
knee, as she blindly followed their convolutions, moving fast, expecting
at any moment to hear Carl's footfall on the stairs below, to feel his
hand on her shoulder. The air was dank and stale, the metal banister
rail cold. The stairway ended abruptly and she banged into the door in
the darkness, rebounding, stumbling backward, pulling herself erect.

Frantically, she searched with her hands for a doorknob, a lever,
something.. .. She shoved at it in frustration and it creaked open.

Like the wardrobe door below, it was double-hinged. She stepped through
it into a low corridor, dimly lit by widely spaced low-wattage bulbs
strung along the ceiling.

Okay, she thought; this will be okay. It'll lead into the IMA lab, and I
can get out that way. I just have to follow it and I'll be fine. As long
as I can stay ahead of Carl.

He scanned the storage area, relieved to see that the two large cartons
were still positioned in front of the wardrobe. Reassured, he attacked
the rest of the room, sliding back the closet doors, pulling clothing
out of suitably sized cartons, shoving the folding beds away from the
wall to look behind them. Nothing.

He went back into the main corridor. Jonathan was ushering men into the
shelter room, promising blankets and pillows. "Any luck?" he asked the
volunteer.

"No, man. Hey, you finished in the storage room?

I need to get the blankets."

"Go ahead."

Jonathan disappeared through the employees only door as Margareta
appeared from the shower room, shaking her head and continuing on to her
office.

Maybe Lucy did leave, Carl thought. There's nowhere else she could be;
we've checked everywhere.

Not in the wardrobe, he thought. I didn't actually look inside the
wardrobe. But she couldn't have gotten in there without moving the
cartons, and the cartons were still in place. Hell, even if she had
squeezed past them, so what? He'd just go in and pull her out. He
started toward the door.

Unless she wasn't in there anymore.

But that was impossible. He'd closed the panel securely when he'd come
through. Hadn't he? Suddenly, he wasn't sure. He'd been in such a blind,
panicked rush .. .

"Let me give you a hand with those things," he said quickly as Jonathan
backed through the brown door, his arms full. Together they distributed
the blankets, then retrieved the rest of the bedding from the storage
room. "I'm going to take one more look around," he told Jonathan when
they were finished. "But Margareta's probably right about her having
already left."

"Whatever," Jonathan said. "I'll stay in here with these guys for a
while, anyway. In case she shows up."

"Good." Carl went back into the storage room, pulling the cartons away
from the wardrobe and yanking back the door. Empty. He reached inside,
fumbling around for the panel, feeling the draft. Had he left it open,
or had she?

He reached into his pocket for the small but powerful flashlight, bent
his head, and stepped through the opening.

The low passage swung left and dead-ended at a large steel panel, its
lock-light gleaming redly. At right angles to it, left and right, were
two doors: an anonymous black door, cold to the touch and secured by
three heavy iron bars, and a steel door, gray like the panel but
smaller, and bearing a yellow biohazard symbol. Its lock light was dark.
Lucy was mulling over the significance of this when the sound of a door
slamming back against the wall somewhere behind her made her jump. No
time to try her luck with the locked steel panel. She pushed tentatively
at the inactivated door and opened it. Dare she go inside?

The lock had been disarmed, but what of the biohazard it.

had contained? Approaching footsteps echoed in the passage, and a
flashlight beam bounced off the wall around the corner from where she
stood. She'd have to risk it. Carl had obviously come along here to get
to the hidden stairs, and the room itself was unsealed; chances were, it
was clean. Of course, these were just the sort of chances she was
trained never to take, the sort of chances that could kill. But Carl
could kill, too.

That was clear from the peruvia scars on Ray's neck.

One hundred percent recovery rate indeed. Her heart in her mouth, she
stepped inside and pushed the door closed.

A faint smell rode on the cold, damp air: formaldehyde.

She knew what that meant. But the room was pitch dark, and she could see
nothing. She ventured a few steps, hitting her shin on a piece of metal.
She couldn't go blundering around here with Carl just outside, yet she
had to find a hiding place. But how could she, when she couldn't see
anything?

She headed back in the direction of the door, feeling for its frame,
positioning herself to one side of the hinges. The open door would hide
her. It was the best she could do.

Had she come this way or not? Carl asked himself urgently. He might have
left the panel open in his rush to confront Lucy. She might have heard
them talking about her and left the mission. He could still be safe, the
secret secure. Or  ... The red lock-light was still glowing; that was
some comfort. If she'd gone through, the light would be green: She
wouldn't be aware of the need to reset it.

Nor would she realize her lab cardkey would work here, too, he told
himself. If she even had it with her.

That was another argument they'd had, he recalled.

He'd insisted that two differently coded cardkeys were unnecessary; no
threat could come from the mission side of the building.

So if she wasn't in there, and she wasn't in the corridor, and she
hadn't left the building .. . He kicked open the small steel door on his
right and flicked on the light. Not many places to hide in here, he
thought.

Only the closets, now filled with decontamination equipment, were large
enough to conceal her. Nevertheless, he strode through the empty ward
and into what had been the staff quarters.

Lucy stood motionless behind the open door, trying ; to quiet her
breathing, willing him to leave. Then what? she wondered. She'd have to
make certain which way he went. If he went through the lock; lighted
door, she'd go back down to the mission and take her chances with
Margareta and Jonathan. If he went down there himself, she'd have to try
and get through the locked door and into the lab.

Satisfied at last, Carl came back through the room toward where she
stood concealed. He hesitated for a moment before the open door, and
Lucy was sure he would hear her heart thumping. He turned for one last
look around the room, then reached for the door, pulling it partly
closed as he stood in the doorway, pausing again as though sensing her
now-exposed presence. Lucy held her breath. If he glanced to his right
.. . But he didn't. He cursed briefly, flicked off the light, and shut
the door behind him.

She gave him a minute, then carefully cracked the door and peeked out.

She could hear his footsteps heading back toward the stairs, see the
reflection of his flashlight beam dancing away down the passageway.

She turned on the light and looked around. Bare bed frames lined the
walls of the square, windowless room. Who had inhabited those beds, and
why?

Wrapping her hand in the edge of her coat, she opened a closet. The
electric frying pans, thick cable, and formaldehyde crystals told her
what she'd already guessed: she was standing in a former hot zone.

From the lingering smell, she knew that not very long ago something had
been loose in this room, something that had required the heaviest known
sterilization protocol to kill it. She desperately hoped the protocol
had worked.

She'd had enough adventure for one night, she decided as she came out
into the passageway. On the other side of that heavy steel door must lie
the IMA lab. If she could get through it, she could get out of here and
go home. Hiking through a blizzard in a bad neighborhood would be a
welcome relief to secret passageways and hot rooms and the threat of
Carl's syringe. She'd confirmed what she'd come here suspecting: Ray had
been kept in the Star of Hope Mission, he'd been infected with peruvia,
and he'd somehow survived. And Carl Anders was responsible.

She studied the door lock. It looked just like the one that guarded the
regular IMA lab entrance. Wishful thinking? Worth a try. Carl wouldn't
be expecting visitors from this side, after all, and certainly not
anyone who worked at the IMA lab. She dug out her IMA cardkey and
inserted it. The red light went out and the green light below it blinked
on. Thank you, Carl, for being such a careless sonofabitch, she thought.
She opened the door and stepped through, then stopped, frowning, as the
door clicked shut behind her. This wasn't the IMA lab. Where the hell
was she?

One blue and five black spacesuits hung on the tiled wall in front of
her. The black suits were nameless, interchangeable. The blue one read
anders across the chest. It was still wet.

Okay, she told herself. So Carl has a second decon shower. Well, he'd
need to, in order to leave Level Four this way. All that means is that
instead of leading into the regular lab, this must lead into Level Four.

All I need to do is suit up and go through it. But why hadn't she ever
noticed a second decon shower entrance in Level Four? Decon showers were
always clearly and boldly marked.

She inspected the suits. Although fabricated with nonreturn-valve air
hose couplings, they were also equipped with self-contained airpacks.

That made sense for the decon suits; presumably, these were what were
worn when the ward she'd just come from had been nuked. But why should
Carl's suit need an airpack? Level Four had hoses.

Working as quickly as she dared, she stripped off her boots and coat,
and pulled a sterile scrub suit up over her clothes. Way wrong, she
knew, but she couldn't leave her clothing here for Carl to find, nor
could she go home naked. Fortunately, Carl's sterile suits were extra
large. She taped gloves and socks to the suit, then took down one of the
black spacesuits, checked it for tears, and put it on. She paused, then
chose a second suit and bundled her outer clothes and handbag into it.
Helmet on, she checked her air supply; the airpack was working well. She
had no way of knowing how much air it contained, but there would be air
hoses once she got into the hot lab, so that shouldn't be a problem.
Sealing the second suit that contained her things, she carried it
through the decon shower and the tiny cement boot room, and stepped out
into the hot lab.

But it wasn't the hot lab, not her hot lab. It was very small, for one
thing, and there was only one workstation. And no air hoses dangled from
the low, tilted ceiling. Against the far wall, a computer monitor
glowed. Placing her belongings on the floor, she went toward it.

Carl unbolted the door and looked out into the blizzard.

Was she out there somewhere? The snow in front of the mission door had
been trodden down by the recent exodus of diners, but in the twenty
minutes since, fresh snow had nearly covered their tracks. No recent
footstep marred its white perfection, and that meant .. . what? That
she'd left early enough for the snow to cover her tracks, too? Or that
she hadn't left at all?

The flying snow stung his face and settled on his hair and eyebrows, but
still he stood there, staring out into the wild night.

 ...  a far milder strain, present in the original samples, that I have
named peruvia b .. .

Ted Wiley's second strain, Lucy thought; Carl had it all the time. She
scanned the research report quickly, taking in the topline information.

Carl had left the computer on; he'd be coming back.

.. . flu-like symptoms in chimps, while recent testing of peruvia b on
human subjects produced headaches, fever, minor scarring .. .

Human subjects, she thought; humans like Ray. A hypertext extension
offered the option to view a scanned micrograph of peruvia b. Staring at
this second strain, Lucy noticed immediately that unlike Ted's version,
all the viral lengths were either longer or shorter than the optimum
length for maximum virulence.

Carl had been working with it, refining it in some way. And testing it.

Okay, she thought; it's outrageous that Carl's been injecting people
with this stuff. But maybe his doctored version of the milder strain,
this peruvia b, might have an inoculant effect. Maybe some good can be
rescued from his horrendous experiments. And indeed, as she returned to
the report, she found the phrase " ...  inoculant effect against both of
the other two strains .. ."

Other two? There's a third one?

.. . experiments have shown that peruvia moribund! is far more virulent
than the original peruvia. Controlled human testing produced a fatality
rate of over ninety percent versus sixty percent for the original
strain.. ..

peruvia b gives complete protection against the moribundi strain .

.

.

Lucy read quickly through the next few pages, then leaned back in her
chair, her mind reeling. Carl had tinkered with the genetic structure of
the original peruvia to create a far more deadly version. Why would he
do such a thing? She thought of the hot room she'd just come from and
shivered. Ray had been lucky.

He'd been given peruvia b, the mild version, the one that caused only
coughs and fevers and scars. The people in the hot room had been
infected with the lethal version.

Another hypertext connection provided a micrograph of moribundi, its
viral lengths all within the range for maximum infectibility and
virulence.

But how could Carl be certain that peruvia b gave complete protection
against peruvia moribundi? Perhaps Ray had been luckier than she'd
realized. Recovery from peruvia b followed by infection with peruvia
moribundi would be the only way Carl would know for sure. I don't think
you're gonna win the Nobel Prize for this one, buddy, she told Carl
silently, her lips white with contained fury.

She scrolled back to the top of the report, wanting to dig deeper but
fearing Carl's imminent return. She was fairly breathless with anger .

.. yes, breathless.

She felt herself go cold with fear. She was breathless, all right, but
not with anger. The airpack was giving out.

She stood up, looking around wildly. She had two choices, neither one
good. Run straight back through to the locker room, breaking decon
procedures and spreading lethal pathogen all the hell over the room and
beyond. Or find a way through to Level Four and the air hoses. The first
choice might not be as bad as it sounded, she thought; peruvia was
transmittable only through blood and bodily fluids. Ah, but who knew
what refinements Carl had added in his creation of moribund!?

Removing her spacesuit without deconing was risking death.

So was not breathing.

She fumbled behind her. Some airpacks had a small hook called a j-valve
that, when pulled, released three minutes of extra air. She hadn't
checked this one, so sure had she been of the presence of air hoses. It
took a long, panicky minute before she found the hook and yanked it
down. But three minutes' reprieve wasn't much. Breathing as shallowly as
she could in her frightened state, she began exploring the small room.

"If she did overhear us, I doubt she'll come back," Margareta said,
taking the vial Carl held out to her.

"And I'm not comfortable about sedating her." She turned the small
sealed ampoule around in her fingers.

"What is this?"

"Just a standard sedative," Carl assured her. "Actually, Bill Miller
prescribed it when I told him the woman might show up here."

"I'd feel a lot better about it if he were here to give it."

"I understand your feelings. But Doctor Bill can't be everywhere at
once. And he was concerned about the safety of the mission." He paused.
"Of course, you must do as you think best."

Margareta studied Carl for a moment. "Please thank the doctor for me,"
she said firmly, "but I'd rather not keep this."

"Whatever you say." Carl shoved the vial back into his pants pocket.

"I'll be going now."

"Don't forget your coat." She rose. "I'll walk you to the front door."

"There's no need." He retrieved the worn coat and strode out into the
hall.

Margareta followed. "I'm afraid I must bolt it behind you," she said.

"We have had problems in the past."

Carl cursed the sister under his breath. He'd assumed she'd stay in her
office, and he'd be able to use the rear passageway again. He hadn't
known about any damn bolt. Now he'd have to go out into the storm,
circle the block, and go in through the IMA lab. And in his good shoes,
too.

It has to be somewhere obvious, she told herself frantically. He'd have
no reason to hide it, at least not on this side. She was gasping now in
the last of the air as she felt along the tiled walls for a hint of a
join.

Nothing. Okay, find the control mechanism, then .. .

he must have some way of opening the door or panel or whatever way he
gets into Level Four.

She went to his small workstation, hands scrabbling underneath the
overhang, along the sides, hearing the hiss of air fade in her helmet,
the resulting silence telling her she'd run out of time.

Heart pounding, she tried to calculate how long she could go on
breathing the recycled air in her helmet before the carbon dioxide
buildup made her pass out.

Not very long; already she was feeling a little dizzy.

She gripped the workstation, trying to calm herself. A button, a switch,
she thought. The workstation area would be the place for one, but she'd
felt nothing.

Felt nothing .. . felt .. . She was spacing out from lack of oxygen, but
there was something important about not feeling.. .. The gloves, she
realized. Of course. The heavy gloves greatly reduced tactile sensation.

She was seriously dizzy now, as she leaned down and examined the bottom
of the overhang, barely focusing on the small metallic button mounted
flush with the bottom surface. A button, she thought. That's nice.

Pretty button .. .

Come on, come on! Drawing on some deep reserve, she fought back the
carbon dioxide narcosis that was overtaking her, and pushed the button.

A small section of tile to one side of the workstation began folding
inward. Her vision dimming, she dragged herself through the opening.

An air hose dangled in front of her. With the last of her strength, she
managed to grab it and fumble it into the coupling on her suit, then
stood weaving as fresh air flooded into her helmet.

She sucked it in gratefully.

It was some minutes before she recovered sufficiently to take stock of
her surroundings. She was at Carl's workstation inside Level Four.

Disconnecting the air hose, she hurried back through the opening and
retrieved the black suit with her clothes and purse, then plugged in the
hose again.

She pushed the section of tile and it slid smoothly back into place.

She studied its location so she could find it again, then realized that
wasn't necessary. All she needed was the location of the control button
on this side. Knowing where to look now, she soon found it on the
underside of the work counter.

If only she had some portable air, she thought. She could go back in and
read the rest of the computer report, check out the vials of virus Carl
had secreted somewhere inside, take samples.. ..

But she didn't have a working airpack. And Carl was coming back.

She'd done all she could tonight, she decided, as she headed for the
decon shower. And at this point, it might be a good idea to recruit some
help.

Standing in the chemical shower, her outrage at Carl's testing program
was rekindled. The IMA had sent her to Peru to combat a deadly
filovirus, and Carl had used the samples she'd brought back to concoct
an even more lethal one.

And an inoculant, she reminded herself. But no, he hadn't created
peruvia b. It had been present in her samples.

Now that was strange. How could a mild, inoculant version of peruvia
have arisen simultaneously with the disease itself?

She thought about the old man in the Peruvian rain forest, and his wife.
She'd collected two blood samples, one from each of them. By chance, one
had gone to the CDC, the other to the IMA lab. These two samples were
obviously the source of the second strain; she'd thought so months ago,
when Ted Wiley had first mentioned its presence to her.

But neither she nor Ted had understood then the difference between this
second strain and the original peruvia.

When the old man had repeatedly referred to the disease as sangre negra,
insisting it was an evil spirit that had returned, Lucy had assumed he'd
experienced a similar sickness before. Filoviruses had only recently
been discovered, and so far, they all seemed to have very similar
symptoms.

But peruvia b wasn't a similar filovirus; it was the same filovirus.

And if it had returned .. . No, that didn't make sense; peruvia b didn't
produce the same deadly symptoms as peruvia. The old man must have
experienced a different filoviral illness. But if that were so, what was
the peruvia b virion doing in his blood?

The shower shut off and Lucy hurried out. In the locker room, she
quickly divested herself of the black spacesuit and scrubs, and donned
her outer clothing and boots. Shoving the scrubs and bodysuits into
three different lockers, she grabbed her handbag and went out into the
main lab space.

Carl trudged through the snowy street, his feet wet and frigid, his
hands shoved deep into the pockets of the old, too-small, mission coat.

The snow had lessenedsomewhat, but the wind was high, swirling the
freezing crystals into his eyes and around his throat.

You're a dead woman, Lucy Nash, he promised her silently. A dead woman.

She stepped from the elevator into the dark and silent lobby, ran across
it, and yanked open the door.

The marauding wind nearly plucked it from her hand as she braced it open
and hurried outside. It banged shut behind her, the sound lost in the
wind. God, it was cold. She moved quickly, heading east, away from the
river, her destination clear in her mind.

Carl rounded the corner, digging with frozen fingers for his cardkey.

He shoved it into the lock, then looked down. Footprints led away from
the door, their outlines blurred by the blowing snow. That meant she'd
gotten through; she knew everything now. He had to go after her. But how
long had she been gone?

What route had she taken? Her footprints were already growing faint;
he'd lose her trail within a block.

It was hopeless. He shivered in the thin coat. His shoes were soaked
through. He could no longer feel his toes.

The airpacks had been nearly empty, he reminded himself. She wouldn't
have had time to do more than read the research file he'd left open.

So she knew about the three strains; so what? It was private research,
that was all. And the TB outbreak? Hell, they'd rounded up the homeless
people and brought them in for treatment in the first place.

They could round them up again, get them off the streets. Then let her
try and prove it wasn't TB.

No, she didn't know everything.

Lucy stumbled through the drifts, fingers and toes icy, her body shaking
with cold. But despite her discomfort, her mind kept turning over the
puzzle of the second strain.

The old man in the jungle; he was the key.

She dredged her memory for details of their confrontation all those
months ago, replaying it in her head. He'd raved that sangre negra had
been brought by white men, hadn't he? And she'd assumed he'd meant
non-Peruvians, foreigners. There was certainly a tradition of that sort
of thing; European explorers and colonists had brought syphilis and
influenza to the New World. But during the three weeks she'd spent with
them, she'd found the Peruvian Indians in that remote region to be very
literal. Could it be that, by hombres blancos, he'd meant people dressed
in white?

Doctors? Nurses? Medical technicians? Could that be why he'd cursed the
medical personnel who'd tried to treat him, and run off into the jungle?

She thought of Carl's sangre negra files, dated two years before. A
hantavirus in Mexico? Or peruvia in Peru?

And hadn't Rick spoken of having visited Peru?

Take only photos, leave only footprints, my ass, Lucy thought. She was
beginning to suspect Rick and Carl had left something very different.

But to what end?

Another of Carl's human experiments?

She tripped over a rise in the snow and fell to her knees, too cold to
feel any pain. What was Bill Miller's role in all this? she asked
herself, struggling to rise.

Was he a partner or a pawn? Carl must have learned about her interest in
the Star of Hope from Bill, but that didn't make him guilty of
collusion. He might simply have mentioned her query to Carl in passing.

Doctor Bill was an eminent, highly respected physician, after all.

Naive in his political thinking perhaps, with a tendency to romanticize
primitive cultures. But a man with a good heart, committed to serving
the less fortunate.

She staggered on, her whole body shivering. Five more blocks, she told
herself. Just five more .. . Four, now .. . She was too cold to think
clearly. She was too cold to think at all. Three more blocks .. . two
... She was nearly incoherent with cold when she finally climbed the
steps, leaning against the railing for support as she rang the bell.

"Lucy, for the love of God," he exclaimed. He put his arm around her and
she clung to him as he drew her inside, pulling off the frozen hat, the
snow-covered coat, the soaked gloves.

"Carl's research .. ." she murmured through frozen lips. "I saw .

.."

"Don't try to talk," he said gently. "Let me defrost you first." He held
her close, stroking her back, her wet hair.

Her arms came around him. She could feel the animal warmth of his body
against hers. It would be all right now; everything would be all right.

He kissed her gently, his lips caressing her cheek, her neck. "Oh,
Lucy," Doctor Bill whispered, "I'm so glad you're here."

Chapter Twenty-three.

I'm so glad I caught you at home."

"Where else would I be?" Rossetti asked reasonably, glancing at the
snow-caked trees that swayed like crazed ghosts beyond the kitchen
window.

Tucking the portable phone under his chin, he took a beer from the
fridge.

"Are you alone?" Tom asked.

"Unfortunately."

"Good."

"Easy for you to say."

"Can the repartee, Mike. I'm calling to warn you.

We've been hearing things recently that suggest something big is in the
wind."

"You mean, with the drug connection?" Rossetti carried the beer through
to the living room and settled himself on the sofa. "It's Renee, isn't
it?"

"Not exactly. Renee's important, but not in the way you think. The
Tortoriello family set her up, of course; the old man's no fool."

"I thought the mob didn't use women."

"They don't," Tom replied. "This is different, a new wrinkle. We did
some checking, thanks to you, and here's the way we see it. When Luciano
Salerno was deported, he lost everything. So when the Tortoriellos up
and offered him an elegant title and a bunch of money in exchange for
his marrying Renee and staying out of the way, he agreed. Now
Tortoriello owns a beautiful Italian countess who's lavish with her
sexual favors, and who's also some sort of poor relation--old man
Tortoriello grew up with Renee's family in Sicily--so he feels he can
trust her."

"But if she's not running a drug operation--"

"Oh, she's more valuable than that. We think Renee serves as a discreet
liaison between the Family and any wealthy, unscrupulous miscreant with
whom Tortoriello wants to do business."

"Like drug running?"

"And money laundering, yes."

"Which one is Miller doing?"

"Some of both, I would guess," Tom answered.

"But that's just fund-raising. No, something much larger is being
planned. Something global."

Planned by whom? Tortoriello?"

Tom hesitated. "We're not sure, but I don't think so. Over the years,
we've found traces of various shadowy financial networks that back
worldwide terrorism.

Certain Middle Eastern governments, of course. And arms dealers with no
political agendas. But lately, the mix has become more complex.

Remember the group that took out a piece of Colombia's major oil
pipeline some months ago? Along with thirty vehicles and some fifty
assorted soldiers and police?"

"Yeah. Leftist rebels, weren't they?"

"Yes, but consider the ramifications. These rebels were involved in drug
trafficking. They were retaliating against a government program aimed at
destroying the coca fields. They were backed by thousands of small
farmers who insisted that growing coca was the only way they could earn
a living."

"Sounds like something Bill Miller might approve of, in his naive,
'sixties' way."

"It's exactly the sort of thing he'd approve of. And possibly provide
financial backing for. But not because of any leftist leanings--even
sixties throwbacks aren't naive enough to finance a drug-growers'
revolution in the name of truth and love."

Rossetti frowned. "You mean, if he's involved in drug trafficking, it's
in his own best interests to keep the coca fields producing."

"Yes. Except that I don't think he's that big into drugs," Tom answered
slowly." If he's dabbling in drugs, if he's using his doctors as
unwitting mules, it's just a sideline, a means of fund-raising.

What disturbs me is what he's raising funds for."

"For the IMA, of course," Rossetti answered, surprised.

"And what exactly is the IMA?"

"A charitable organization that--"

"I've read their literature, Mike.

No, what the IMA is, is Miller's baby."

"And Carl Anders's."

"Anders, yes .. ."

"So what you're suggesting," Rossetti recapped, frowning, "is that
Miller's using drugs to raise money for purposes unknown. And that
Dither didn't know he was carrying heroin when he was arrested. He was
caught on a random check?"

"Maybe. Or maybe Dither found out what Miller was really doing and
Miller decided to get him out of the way before he could talk. A little
heroin in his luggage to discredit him, an anonymous call to the DEA.
And then a death pill in his cell. The mob could help with that part."

"I thought Dither committed suicide."

"You also thought the IMA was a charitable organization."

"So Miller's using the IMA to raise money to support left-wing
terrorism? That's your theory?" Tom was silent. "And how, exactly, does
this 'second strain' virus thing fit in?"

"You tell me."

"I can't, Tom." Rossetti thought for a moment.

"Maybe Anders is playing a lone hand. Maybe Miller doesn't know what
Carl's doing. God knows, I don't."

"Now who's being naive?" Tom sighed. "Whatever's going on at the IMA,
you can bet on one thing. Nothing happens without Miller's approval."

"I'm not sure I agree. Carl Anders--"

"Forget Carl Anders," Tom said harshly. "Anders works for Miller. You
ever wonder how Miller got approval to build that Level Four lab? Well,
wonder no more. It appears the CIA may have been involved."

"Miller's a Spook?"

"Not Miller; some friends of his. The trail's muddy but suggestive."

"But if the lab is Cla-based, then Miller's on our side."

Tom gave a cynical little laugh. "And which side is that, precisely?"

Mike was silent. "Anyhow, we're not talking officially sanctioned covert
stuff, more like a rogue offshoot. But never mind all that.

The important thing for you is, we're getting the feeling that whatever
is going to happen, is going to happen soon. We need to know what, and
we need to know when."

"I don't see how I can do more than I'm already doing."

"I know, I know. Just keep your eyes and ears wide open. Let me know
about anything that seems the least bit ... irregular. Even if it
doesn't seem important."

"Will do."

"And Mike? One more thing."

"Yeah?"

"Watch your ass."

Gently, his arm around her shivering form. Bill led Lucy into the living
room and settled her on a sofa facing the fireplace. "Let me get you
something hot to drink," he said solicitously.

But she shook her head and, taking his hand, drew him down beside her.

"I have so much to tell you," she said, her eyes serious. "And none of
it can wait."

She began to speak, her cheeks pink in the sudden warmth of the room.

As her words tumbled out. Bill stared at her with an expression of
horror as she described the recently decontaminated ward, the secret
labyrinth between the mission and the IMA lab, the scars on Crazy Ray's
neck, Carl's secret Level Four lab, and the peruvia research report
she'd read on his computer screen.

When she finished, they both were silent. Then, "God, Lucy," Bill
exclaimed softly. "What a fool I've been. What a trusting fool."

"You'll have to close down, of course," she said.

"We'd better call the CDC right away. And the Environment Protection
Agency isn't going to be very happy, either."

But Bill shook his head. "I can't do that."

"You have to. You're putting the entire city at risk."

"I don't think so. Whatever went on there is over, and the lab itself is
completely contained. I'll close Anders down, of course. But I won't
risk what I've built, all the good things the IMA is doing in the field
and at the lab, your own work included." He paused.

"As you can imagine, it wasn't easy, getting permission to build a Level
Four lab. It took support, influence from people at the highest levels.
The same .. .

friends who supported that effort will support me now in cleaning up
this mess quietly, in a way that will avoid publicity and allow us to
continue our good work." He took tender hold of her shoulders and looked
deeply into her eyes. "You must let me do this my way, Lucy. I know you
have friends at the CDC, but you mustn't call them. There's too much at
stake here, more than you know. You must leave me to deal with this."
His face tightened. "And believe me, I will." Lucy frowned but nodded
her agreement, and Bill visibly relaxed. "You're still cold, aren't you?
I can feel you shaking. How about that hot drink? A cup of cocoa?"

"It does sound good."

A plaid woolen throw was folded over the back of a nearby chair. He
draped it around her, then went and added a fresh log to the fire in the
grate. For a moment he stood watching the leaping flames. Then, "Be
right back," he promised, and headed for the kitchen.

Lucy snuggled under the soft wool. The horrors of the night seemed more
manageable, now that Bill knew about them, too. Together, they'd put a
stop to Carl Anders's mad experiments.

He soon returned with two steaming mugs, and Lucy gulped hers eagerly.

It had been a long time since she'd had anything to eat or drink. He
smiled down at her. "You're looking better already," he told her,
sipping his cocoa.

"I feel better. But I ought to go home soon. It's late."

"No way," he said. "It's still snowing like crazy, and nothing's moving
out there. Stay here tonight. I'll make up a bed in one of the guest
rooms."

"But I"

"Please. Let's not even discuss it. I have a few phone calls to make,"
he continued, "and then I'll fix us some sandwiches and we'll talk about
how we're going to deal with all this." He beamed at her.

"You are one courageous young woman, Lucy Nash." He patted her arm.

"Rest and get warm. Doctor's orders."

The hot drink was coursing through her. She turned, smiling, to watch
his retreating back, then relaxed against the sofa cushions and stared
at the fire. The dancing flames were almost hypnotic. It had been a long
night; her eyelids felt heavy. When he returned some ten minutes later,
she was asleep.

Bill stared down at her, then bent and lifted her in his arms. She
murmured and cradled against him, but didn't wake up as he carried her
upstairs to his bedroom.

He set her gently on the bed and unwound the wool coverlet from around
her, dropping it onto a chair. He pulled off her boots and thick socks,
hesitated, then started to remove her skirt. She stirred and opened her
eyes, and he immediately stopped, drawing the bedspread over her legs.

"Rick .. ." she murmured.

He frowned. "What?"

"How well do you know Rick?" she asked thickly.

"Hollander?" Bill's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"Saw him in the lab .. . trying to read Carl's files.. .." Her eyelids
flickered. ".. . Sure you can trust him?"

Bill frowned. Hollander was on his side, wasn't he?

Was this accusation of Lucy's the result of a lover's tiff? Was that why
Hollander hadn't been able to warn him of Lucy's recent activities?

Or was there something more here? "Lucy? Wake up." He shook her by the
shoulders, but her eyes remained closed. The strong soporific he'd given
her, to allow him time to set certain plans in motion, had certainly
worked quickly. Well, it didn't matter; he knew perfectly well who
constituted the greatest threat to the operation, and it sure as hell
wasn't Hollander.

He pulled back the bedspread and unzipped and removed her skirt,
admiring her strong, slim legs. His eyes wandered to the dark patch
beneath the white lace panties. He caressed it, feeling the warmth
against his palm. He glanced at her face. She was well under; no need
for caution. Roughly he pulled off the panties and parted her legs, his
fingers moving inside her. She moaned and shifted on the bed, but he
ignored her.

He was in control of her body now. She had no say in the matter.

With damp fingers, he unbuttoned her sweater and peeled it off, then
reached around and undipped her bra, tossing both items onto the floor.

He took her nipples in his mouth one at a time, sucking, nibbling,
biting, as he fumbled with his zipper. This feeling of power over her,
of complete possession of her, was almost uncontrollably exciting.

Shucking his trousers and briefs, he straddled her, taking his member in
his hand and parting her lips with it. Still sleeping, she brought a
hand up to push him away, but he held her off, working himself into her
mouth. Teach you a lesson, you interfering bitch, he thought.

His pleasure built steeply, too steeply, and he stopped abruptly,
determined to make it last. He hesitated, then slid down her body, his
tongue working.

At last he entered her, lifting her buttocks to ram himself deep inside.
Still unconscious, she moaned again and tried to roll away, but he held
her impaled, thrusting ever deeper, rough and fast and hard, pummeling,
punishing. You'll feel this tomorrow, he thought furiously, exultantly.
You'll feel my power.

The monkeys howled and shook their cages as Carl Anders appeared. They
hadn't been fed since morning, but the man in the sealed yellow suit
carried nothing save a hypodermic needle and several filled vials.

He surveyed the animals briskly, showing no regret for what he was about
to do. He'd never liked monkeys much, and these twelve animals had been
mere research tools, to be studied and discarded.

The monkey in the far left cage bared his teeth as Carl approached,
anticipating dinner, angry at the delay. The man struck swiftly,
plunging the long needlethrough the hairy skin and emptying its contents
into the bloodstream. The animal jerked back, but the needle was already
out, ready for refilling. During the experiments, Carl had been
scrupulous about using a fresh needle for each injection, but now it
didn't matter.

The experiments were over, the monkeys no longer of any use. Miller's
phone call had been very specific.

By the time the syringe was full again, the first monkey lay slumped in
its cage, its breathing slow and stuttery. Quickly Anders worked his way
down the row of cages, injecting each monkey in turn. The animals grew
quiet, fear overwhelming hunger.

The animal experiments had not been a success, Carl reflected. He'd been
unable to transmit peruvia to the monkeys in any recognizable form,
although their blood samples had shown the presence of viral antibodies.
Nor had he been able to transmit the simian version of peruvia to human
subjects. Not that he'd been surprised; all the research agreed that
simian hemorrhagic fever wasn't transmittable to humans, either. Still,
he'd hoped.. ..

The last monkey shuddered and lay still. Anders shoved a long stick
through the bars and poked at it.

Getting no response, he cautiously unlocked the cages and began pulling
out the dead animals, dropping them one by one into large, heavy, black
decontamination bags.

"Lucy? I didn't know whether to wake you or not.

It's nearly eleven."

Lucy swam up from treacly sleep to see Bill Miller, dressed in business
clothes, standing at the partly open door. God, she felt tired. "What
time did you say?"

"Ten of eleven." Bill smiled warmly. "When I came back with the
sandwiches, you were passed out on the sofa. You must have been
exhausted."

She sat up and looked around. "Where am I?"

"In one of the guest rooms. I'm afraid your clothes will be a little
wrinkled. I didn't feel right about undressing you, so I let you sleep
in them. Aside from your boots, of course. Would you like some
breakfast?"

Suddenly the time registered, and Lucy threw back the cover. "I'm due at
the hospital," she said, swinging her feet off the bed.

"Better check your answering machine first. Things are kind of haywire,
thanks to the storm."

"Is it still snowing?"

"No, it stopped around dawn. The sky's clearing.

Wish I could say the same for the streets." She stood up, swaying
slightly. "You okay?"

"A little dizzy." She found her boots beside the bed and began to pull
them on. "Some coffee might help."

"I'll bring you a cup."

"That's okay. I'll come down."

"Whatever you like. There's a phone by the bed, if you want to call in."

Lucy reached for the instrument, then grimaced at the dull ache in her
abdomen. Must have pulled something when I fell in that drift last
night, she thought.

Although it didn't feel like muscle pain, exactly. Her skirt seemed to
have worked its way around during the night. She adjusted her clothing,
smoothing the wrinkles as best she could, then picked up the phone and
began dialing.

Bill was eating toast in the breakfast nook. "Honey or marmalade?" he
asked as she hurried through the archway.

"Neither, thanks." Lucy slid carefully into a chair across from him.

The dull ache in her gut was troubling, and when she'd used the
bathroom, she'd found a blush of blood on her panties. What the hell had
she done to herself? "Look, I've got to get going.

They're shorthanded at the hospital; people are having trouble getting
into town. Which brings up another problem."

"Oh?" Bill carefully poured coffee into the cup in front of her.

"Ken Walsh left about a million messages on my machine. He wants me to
fly to the Ivory Coast today." Walsh was in charge of sending IMA
doctors on overseas missions. "I don't see how I can possibly go, but if
it's really peruvia--" Bill's face took on an expression of
astonishment.

"Peruvia? In Africa?"

"That's what he said. At least, that's what the reports suggest it might
be."

"God, Lucy, you have to go."

"Bill, I can't."

"Two days, three at the most." He paused, thinking.

"This is Friday.. .. We'll fly you back on Monday for sure, okay?

Please, Lucy. There's no one else we can send, no one else who's
actually worked with peruvia, who has the clearance to deal with it."

Lucy shook her head. "It's impossible. Don't you think I want to go?

If it really is peruvia, it's an amazing discovery. But I don't see
how--"

"Call the hospital. See what you can do." Bill paused.

"Besides, it might be a good idea for you to get away for a bit."

"How do you mean?"

"After what you discovered last night, I don't think Carl Anders is
going to be very happy to see you."

"I wasn't planning to pay him a visit."

"The man's already threatened to kill you, Lucy.

You said so yourself. He'll be a lot more dangerous to you, now."

"He's dangerous to us all."

"Yes, but I know how to deal with him. For your own safety, if not for
the peruvia project, get out of town for a while."

"I don't know.. .. Even if I did agree to go, I can't believe any
flights are taking off today."

"They have one runway open at Kennedy. I heard it on the news. I can
arrange for a helicopter to fly you over there from the East River
terminal. That's just a few blocks from here."

"I'll need to pack.. .."

"I'll get a car to take you to your apartment, wait while you throw some
things into a bag, and then take you to the helicopter pad. What time's
the flight?"

"I don't know. I haven't called Ken back yet."

Bill got up. "You have some breakfast," he said, all energy and bustle.
"I'll call Ken and make the arrangements."

"I'm not big on running away from things." Lucy frowned.

"You're not running away from anything," Bill insisted.

"I'm afraid it'll all be right here waiting for you when you get back on
Monday evening."

"I guess you're right. And if it really is peruvia .. ."

"Then we need you there."

"Well, I'd better get busy," Lucy said, deciding. "I'll have to call the
hospital, and  ..." And Rick, she thought. They'd arranged to meet for
dinner tonight; part of her attempt to learn what he was really up to.

"I have to cancel some things," she finished lamely.

"I'll use the phone in the study," Bill said, "so you can use this one."
He paused at her chair and touched her cheek. "It's the best way, Lucy.
For everybody."

It was quite amazing what money could do, Lucy reflected a short time
later, as the Lincoln Town Car skidded through the partly plowed streets
toward her apartment building. A helicopter was standing by, her ticket
was waiting for her at the airport, and even the hospital administration
had been supportive of her sudden trip which, considering how
shorthanded they were at the moment, was a small miracle in itself. The
pain in her gut had subsided somewhat, and the strong coffee Bill had
brewed had cleared her head. The car drew up in front of her building
and she leaped out, excitement about her forthcoming trip building fast.

She waved a hand at the doorman and hurried through the lobby, mentally
sorting through her clothing.

She wouldn't take much, she decided; a large overnight bag should do it.
She'd only be gone a few days, and most of that time she'd be wearing
scrubs and a sealed field suit.

Inside the apartment, she quickly stripped off her clothing and threw it
onto the bed, then took the world's fastest shower. Still damp, she
pulled on jeans and a shirt, then dug out her passport and driver's
license and began to pack.

There was a holiday feeling in the air. Schools were closed, and
children were body surfing off the roofs of buried cars and bombarding
each other with snowballs.

Many businesses seemed to have declared a snow day too, and people
trudged, slightly bemused, through the drifts in search of a store that
hadn't yet run out of milk.

Rick checked his watch as he entered the lobby of the building that
housed the IMA offices just before noon. It had taken him nearly an hour
to make the trip uptown from the lab. The receptionist was among the
missing, so he wandered down the hall, asking directions of the sparse
staff.

"He'll just be a minute," Alicia said, rising. "Can I get you some
coffee?"

"That would be great." The secretary disappeared and Rick settled into
the chair beside her workstation.

He was glancing idly at the papers on her desk when she reappeared, cup
in hand.

"I think you'll be more comfortable in the reception room," she said
coldly, handing him the cup.

"Uh, right. Thanks." Embarrassed, Rick took the coffee and was turning
away when Alicia's intercom buzzed.

"You can send Hollander in now," Bill's voice instructed.

Rick reversed direction and hurried past a tightlipped Alicia, into
Bill's private office.

"Close the door," Bill ordered from behind his desk computer. Out of the
corner of his eye. Rick saw Bill eject a disk with a bright green label
and slide it furtively under some papers before waving the younger man
to a seat.

"I thought we had a deal," Miller said without preamble, coming from
behind his desk.

"We do," Rick agreed.

"Then why didn't I know Lucy was still pursuing the Jean-Pierre thing?

Why didn't you tell me about Dither's notebook?"

Rick did his best to look surprised. "What notebook?"

"Don't bullshit me, Hollander."

"I swear. Bill, she didn't tell me." Bill looked unconvinced.

"Look, I have no reason to hold out on you. We both want the same thing:
to protect Lucy from herself, right?" Rick hesitated. "The thing is, we
had a little .. ."

"Lovers' quarrel?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"What about?"

"Come on, Bill. I can't tell you that."

Bill rose and paced toward the window, then turned.

"Lucy tells me you've been trying to get into Carl's computer."

"What?"

"She said she saw you. She asked me whether you could be trusted."

"Jesus." Rick shook his head sadly, but his thoughts were churning.

How to handle this? he wondered.

"Jealousy is a terrible thing," he said at last.

Bill watched Rick carefully. "Go on," he said.

Rick sighed. "She found out I'd been seeing Renee."

"I thought I told you to break it off."

"I did ... I tried. Renee kept calling my apartment, leaving messages on
my machine," he continued, inventing freely. "Lucy heard one of them.
Hell, you know what Renee's like."

"So Lucy's trashing your reputation because she's jealous of a woman you
used to date."

" "Date' isn't quite--"

"That doesn't sound like Lucy."

"A woman in love--" Rick began, but Bill waved an impatient hand at him.

"Maybe, maybe not." He studied Rick closely.

"Frankly, it doesn't really matter."

"What do you mean? Look, I'm having dinner with her tonight. I'm sure I
can smooth things over. I'm still your man."

Bill lowered himself into a chair across from Rick.

"I don't need you to be my 'man,' as you put it. I'm through trying to
protect Lucy Nash."

"How come?"

Bill gave a helpless little shrug. "I've done all I can.

Lucy's a big girl; she'll do what she wants to do. One of the things she
wants to do, by the way, is to give up her work at the IMA lab,
effective immediately.

She's not coming back."

"Not coming back? But her experiments--"

"Someone else can take them over. I'm considering closing down all the
peruvia research, anyway."

"I can't believe she just up and quit," Rick said.

"What reason did she give?"

"You can ask her tonight," Bill said neutrally. "At that dinner you
mentioned. I believe she'll say that she's been spreading herself too
thin. She wants to devote more time to fieldwork." He paused. "She told
me fieldwork has always had great appeal for her, and that it's even
more appealing, now that Jeanpierre's dead."

"What does Jean-Pierre's death have to do with her wanting to do more
fieldwork?"

"I wondered that myself," Bill said slowly. "Well, I'm sure you'll want
to be getting back to the lab."

Rick rose, and Bill walked him to the door. "So glad we had this little
talk. I must say I'm reassured to know that Lucy's accusations of
treachery were motivated by jealousy. I've always had the deepest regard
for your work."

"And I for yours," Rick said as the door closed behind him. He
hesitated, then turned and silently cracked the door open a tiny
fraction. Putting his eye to the narrow slit, he watched Bill slide into
his desk chair, then fumble around in the mess of papers and retrieve
the bright green disk. For a moment Bill looked up as though feeling
Rick's eyes on him. Then, with a furtive gesture, he inserted the disk
into the computer drive.

She's not coming back. All the way downtown, Bill's words echoed in his
ears. When had she made that decision? Why hadn't she told him?

Perhaps she was planning to, this evening. He hurried through the small
reception area and into his lab. The message light on his phone was
blinking.

Pressing the replay button, he heard Lucy's voice canceling their dinner
plans. As he listened, he became more and more concerned. She was flying
to the Ivory Coast immediately, she told him, to deal with a medical
emergency that might be related to peruvia.

She'd be back on Monday evening, and they'd get together next week.

He sank into a chair, brow furrowed. This trip was awfully sudden, he
thought. "Fieldwork has always had great appeal for her," Bill had said.
"It's even more appealing, now." Why now? Rick had the feeling he was
being set up for something, but what?

"She's not coming back," he repeated silently to himself. Not coming
back to the lab. She's off to Africa and she's not coming back. Oh,
shit, he thought, she's not coming back at all. He grabbed for the phone
and began dialing furiously.

Lucy had set the large overnight bag down in the corridor and was
locking her apartment door when the phone began to ring. Should she
answer it? She glanced at her watch. No time, she thought. Let the
machine get it. She picked up the bag and ran for the elevator.

Chapter Twenty-four "You told me there were no survivors."

"I was wrong. But--" ,Y?

"Shut up, Carl." Bill Miller's face was dark with anger. It was Anders's
fault he'd had to call this emergency meeting above Banana King this
Friday evening.

Anders's fault that Lucy had learned what she had, and that he needed
Tortoriello's help again. "If two people survived the sangre negra
trials two years ago," he continued, "there could be others."

"So what? No one knows--"

"No one knew," Bill snarled, leaning over him.

"Someone sure as hell knows now."

"No, she doesn't," Carl insisted. "The report she saw in my computer
didn't mention the earlier trials."

"And you don't think she'll figure it out? It's bad enough two of the
blood samples she brought back from Peru contained the peruvia b virion.
But denying it existed while accidentally sending one to the CDC-Jesus."
Bill slumped into a chair. "If I hadn't been able to arrange for Ted
Wiley's funding to be cut .. ."

He shook his head in disgust." "No survivors,' you said. "Everybody
dead. Saw the bodies myself."

" He glared at Carl. "I'm surrounded by fools."

"Listen, Bill, it's damn lucky there were survivors.

If those two indios hadn't come to the research station to be treated
for fever, we'd never have discovered peruvia b. We'd never have
realized the sangre negra had spontaneously mutated in their bodies, the
way Ebola did in those monkeys in Reston, Virginia, back in 1989."

"I know all that," Bill said impatiently. "The point is that you--" But
Carl was on a roll. "The point," he insisted, "is that without those two
survivors, we'd never have known peruvia b even existed, let alone that
it was an inoculant. Hell, I tried to duplicate the mutation in the
animal lab and I couldn't. I'm damn grateful for those two survivors,
and you should be, too."

"Don't lecture me," Bill told him angrily. "Thanks to you, everything
we've worked for all these years could have gone right down the toilet.

If Lucy hadn't come to me last night--" He rose and stalked the length
of the room, turned, paced back again, his body stiff with tension.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he demanded. "Chasing her through
that damn mission, letting her discover the lab, the moribund!

ward-Never mind," he broke off angrily. "I'll deal with her now."

A buzzer sounded. Bill brought himself under control, then hit the
control switch that worked the secret panel. It swung open to admit
Renee, followed by several men. Bill waved them all to seats around the
table. He himself remained standing.

"We have trouble?" Renee asked.

"Nothing we can't handle," Bill said tightly. "But we'll need the help
of your people. For which we'll pay well, as usual."

"I told Mr. Tortoriello it was not a good idea," she said, stripping off
her navy peacoat, "to deal with amateurs."

"Nonsense," Bill replied tautly. "Everything was going beautifully until
Dither was arrested. You were supposed to make sure that sort of thing
never happened."

He glared at her.

Renee shrugged. "It seems the Customs people got a tip from an art
gallery owner," she said. "Something about smuggled artifacts. That's
what they were looking for when they found the heroin. There was no way
we could have known. You have anything to drink around here?"

"You know I don't."

"Pity. Anyway, we took care of Dither in jail. He never got a chance to
defend himself against the charges, at least not convincingly. And Beno
Stanislas has been taken care of, too. A little gift from my boss."

"Beno .. ." Bill's face filled with sudden understanding.

"Dither's art dealer."

"Yes. Beno thought Dither was cheating him, or so he told our people.

He and that stupid Dither put the whole operation in jeopardy." She
looked around the table. "I think we should close it down."

"You may be right," Bill agreed, taking a seat across the table from
her. "We'll discuss it after you take care of Lucy Nash."

Rene smiled a catlike smile. "What would you like me to do to her?"

she purred. "And do you want to watch?"

"I want her murdered, Renee. And no, I don't want to watch."

Renee stiffened. "I do not do murder."

"Of course you don't. But your people do." Renee frowned. "Lucy was
Jean-Pierre's lover, so we'll tarnish her with the same brush."

"Heroin."

"Yes. The IMA has already sent her to the Ivory Coast."

"The Ivory Coast?" Carl repeated. "What's happened there?"

"Malaria, as usual," Bill said shortly. "But I had Ken Walsh tell her it
might be peruvia."

"She'll see right away that it's not," Carl objected.

"She'll suspect--" Bill shrugged. "Reports from the field are not always
accurate. Besides, it no longer matters what she suspects. You see, when
she comes through Kennedy Airport, someone will have tipped off the
Customs people, citing her former relationship with Dither.

Her bags will be thoroughly searched. Heroin will be discovered.

When approached by the authorities, I will reluctantly inform them that
she had recently asked to be given more field trips, presumably in order
to continue Dither's smuggling of drugs and artifacts. His notebook will
be found among her possessions."

"She'll deny it all," Carl broke in. "She'll tell them about my
research--"

"What?" Renee turned to frown at Carl.

"She won't say a coherent word, I assure you," Bill quickly assured her,
shooting a furious glance at Anders. "And once she's in custody, your
people"--he turned back to Renee--"will do to her what they did to
Dither."

"That might be a little difficult," Renee said slowly.

"Our resources in the women's detention facilities are not as good as in
the men's."

"Well, work something out," Bill said impatiently.

"It's important to both our organizations. I'll provide you with Lucy's
flight number and arrival time."

"It will be expensive," she warned him.

"Of course it will," Bill agreed dryly.

Renee frowned. "I still don't understand what Carl was saying
before--something about his research?"

"It's nothing you need to worry about," Bill said smoothly. "Just a
little internal friction. Lucy's been working at the IMA lab, and Carl's
made it fairly obvious that he doesn't care for her."

"I see. And Rick Hollander? Is he still keeping an eye on Lucy for you,
or can I have him back now?"

Her smile was lazy and arrogant, telling Bill clearly that she didn't
really need his permission.

"Once Lucy's dead, you can do whatever you like with him," Bill told
her, smiling grimly as he recalled his recent meeting with Rick.

Lovers' quarrel indeed.

Another job for Mr. Tortoriello's boys when the time is right, he
thought. He rose. "Thank you for joining us, Contessa," he said, coming
around the table to kiss her hand. The others stood, too, as Renee
shrugged on her coat. Bill went and opened the wall panel, letting in a
gust of cold, stale air. "Gentlemen, would you stay behind for a
moment?" he added as Renee stepped out into the dark corridor. "Just
some financial housekeeping," he explained as she turned back
questioningly. She nodded and disappeared down the hallway. Bill closed
the panel behind her, waving the men back to their seats, the smile
fading from his face.

"Stupid mistakes have been made," he told them sternly. "Arming the
rebels in Colombia was one thing, but allowing them to blow up the
pipeline in the name of drug running? That was stupid. I never
authorized that." He glared at them. "There will be no more stupid
mistakes. We cannot afford them, not when we're so close." His eyes
glittered with fanatic zeal. "The dream is about to become reality,
gentlemen.

The creation of a new world order is at hand.

All that remains is to perfect human airborne transmission."

He scowled at Carl.

"I thought .. ." Anders began, then stopped, swallowed, and started
again. "I was successful in mutating the simian strain," he explained
earnestly. "The simian strain did become airborne, but it turned out to
be harmless to humans. That happens sometimes, and--"

"We don't want to hear about your failures," Bill interrupted. "How soon
can you report success?"

"I'm not sure. But soon," he added quickly, seeing Bill's face darken.

"This is troubling," said the man to Carl's right.

"How long are we expected to wait? My people have contributed much
money," he added in accented English. "They want action. What if
airborne transmission is impossible?"

"Then we go with what we have," Bill said confidently.

"It'll be nearly as effective. Airborne transmission is ideal, but not
strictly necessary. Believe me, with what we have right now, the world
will listen to us." He stared fiercely around the table. "I promise you,
the world will listen. And obey."

"Jesus, Tom, I've been trying to reach you all afternoon."

"Been up to my ass in meetings," the older man replied. "Something
wrong?"

"The IMA just sent Lucy Nash to Africa."

"So? She's gone on medical missions before."

"Yeah, but I have a bad feeling about this one," Rossetti said. "It's
too sudden. I think she may have learned something, and they're planning
to neutralize her."

"In Africa?" Tom sounded doubtful.

"Why not? Or maybe on the way there. Or on the way back. You've got to
pull her out."

"Pull her out?" Tom protested. "She's not in."

"The hell she isn't. She's in it up to hen-"

"You know what I mean.

I didn't put her in. She's a civilian."

"And she's in danger. Can't you take her into protective custody or
something?"

"And blow the whole operation? Good plan." Tom sighed. "Look, Mike, all
we have are suspicions. The hot lab's license is legit. There's no proof
that any laws are being broken, or that Miller and the IMA aren't what
they seem."

"But you know better," Rossetti insisted.

"I suspect better," Tom corrected him. "Without actual proof--" He broke
off. "We're getting close," he began again. "Like I told you,
something's in the wind. I can't afford to let Miller get suspicious
now.

And if Nash was sent to Africa because of something she knows, our
interfering would be the worst thing we could do."

"Not for her. Can't you track her through our embassy in the Ivory
Coast?"

"Track her?" Tom replied incredulously. "You can't actually be
suggesting that someone follow her into the bush, stand next to her
while she doctors people. Even if it were practicable, which it isn't,
don't you think it's a tad obvious?" He thought for a moment.

"Tell you what: give me her flight numbers and we'll check to see if she
got there, and whether she leaves on schedule."

"I don't have them. But she's flying back sometime Monday."

Tom sighed. "I'll see what I can do. Although I'm still not convinced
she isn't part of whatever's going down. I know, I know," he added
quickly, as Rossetti began to interrupt. "You don't agree. Well, even
assuming you're right and I'm wrong, I am not, repeat not, prepared to
do anything that might jeopardize this operation. So unless you can come
up with concrete evidence that her life is in danger, Lucy Nash is on
her own."

Chapter Twenty-five.

Lucy jounced uncomfortably on the sprung seat of the old Ford taxi,
breathing in the warm smell of wet vegetation and wondering for the
thousandth time why the hell she'd been sent here.

How could an experienced field technician have confused the symptoms of
malaria with those of an unknown filovirus? Why had Ken Walsh been so
anxious to whisk her off to Africa that he hadn't waited for lab
confirmation of the blood work? And why, if peruvia had been a serious
possibility, had she been sent in alone, without experienced biohazard
backup people? The past three days had been a complete waste of her
time, and she was feeling tired and ill used. She paid off the driver,
grabbed her bag, and strode into the airport, anxious to be on her way.

"Dr. Nash?" Lucy stopped, turned. An unremarkable man of about
thirty-five, a pale toothbrush mustache decorating his upper lip, stood
beside her. "We meet again," he said, smiling and offering a beefy hand.
"Jack Mcnulty, remember?" Lucy frowned; he looked familiar, but she
couldn't quite place him.

"Mayaruna Airport? Back in November?"

Her face cleared. "Yes, of course," she said.

"You're the South American rep."

"Was," he said. "Africa, now." He hesitated. "So sorry to hear about Dr.
Dither. Helluva thing." Lucy nodded but said nothing; what was there to
say? He glanced at the case she carried. "Where's the rest of your
luggage?"

"This is it. I wasn't here very long."

"Well, let me check it for you," he offered. "Just give me your ticket,
and--"

"That's not necessary," Lucy said.

"Oh, the IMA is a full-service organization," he said with a friendly
wink. "Besides, the check-in line's awfully long." He gestured toward
the crowd milling around the departures counter. "Find a seat somewhere
and I'll see to everything."

"Thanks." Lucy fished in her bag for her air ticket and handed it over.

"And I'll need your bag," he said, reaching for it.

"It doesn't need to be checked," she explained.

"I'm carrying it onto the plane with me."

He hesitated. "They're inspecting all hand luggage these days," he told
her. "It's frightening what some people try to take on board.

Don't worry, I'll have it back to you in a jiffy."

Lucy relinquished her hold on the case and he picked it up. "Have a seat
over there," he suggested, "so I'll know where to find you. Oh, and can
I bring you something to drink? Soda? Coffee?"

"A soda would be nice."

"Something canned and sealed." He nodded approvingly.

"Wise choice in this part of the world."

Lucy watched him disappear into the crowd, then wandered over to the
bank of seats he'd indicated and slumped into one of the orange plastic
chairs. Mayaruna Airport, she thought. So much had happened since that
rainy morning, none of it good. Her mind drifted back to the weeks with
Jean-Pierre in Peru, to their farewell at the airport.

"There's something for you in my luggage," he'd said. Two ugly statues
and six kilos of heroin. Thanks a lot, Jean.

"Sorry to take so long," Mcnulty dropped down into the seat beside her.
"Here's your bag, safe and sound. Ticket's right on top. And I got you a
cola.

Hope that's okay."

"Cola's fine." She took it from him, a little surprised to see that he'd
snapped the top and inserted a straw.

"I told you we were full service," he said, noticing her expression.

"You've got twenty minutes or so before they start boarding." He leaned
back in his chair and stretched. "Looking forward to going home?"

"Yes," Lucy said. "Frankly, I don't know why I'm here at all. Surely you
have people on site who can handle malaria."

"Malaria? Is that what it was? Afraid I don't know much about the
medical side of things. I just meet and greet." He looked over at her.
"Drink up."

Lucy took a small sip. It was warm and very fizzy.

"How do you like the Ivory Coast?" she asked.

"Rather a change from South America."

"It is and it isn't," he told her. "All airports are pretty much alike."

"But surely you get out of the airport now and then," she teased.

"Oh, sure. Actually, I like traveling around, seeing different places,"
Jack said. "I grew up in Virginia.

Beautiful, but a little too quiet for me. So my dad suggested I join the
IMA. He's an old pal of Bill Miller's."

Lucy suddenly remembered the conversation she'd had with Bill soon after
Jean-Pierre's death, when she'd wondered aloud whether Jack could have
put the heroin in Jean-Pierre's bag and Bill had assured her such a
thing was impossible. Bill had mentioned that Jack's father had worked
at Langley. No one said "Langley" like that unless he meant CIA. Why
hadn't it seemed significant to her before? Had Mcnulty Junior been a
Spook, too, at one time? She frowned.

"Where else have you been stationed?" she asked, attempting a casual
tone despite the disquieting thoughts that had begun chasing each other
around in her head.

Mcnulty thought a little. "South America, mostly," he said. "And now
here. Oh, and I spent a year in Turkey, but that was quite a while ago.
Uh, why don't you finish your drink and we'll go through to the gate?"

"You're coming with me?"

"Sure. I have a gate pass. As I said, we're a--"

"--full service organization." Lucy managed a laugh. "Okay, let's go."

"Uh, better drink up first. I don't think they'll let you take that
through security."

"Really?" She lifted the soda. "Salud." She took the straw between her
lips, then raised her eyes to look at him. His eyes were fixed on the
can, his expression tense.

"Bottoms up," he said.

She stopped in mid-sip and sat perfectly still. Stupid, she berated
herself; stupid, stupid. A cold, white fear flooded through her. She
released the straw and thrust the can toward him. "Hold this for me,
will you?" she said, striving to keep her tone calm and easy. "I need to
use the John." She picked up her bag and turned away quickly so he
wouldn't see her face.

"You can leave your case with me," he called after her, but she ignored
him and kept moving.

Inside the ladies' room, she locked herself into a cubicle and rummaged
frantically through her bag.

Nothing. She leaned against the metal wall, stiff with dread. I actually
went to him for help, she thought fearfully; I told him everything. I
fell asleep in his goddamn house. I made it so easy for him. Her hands
were shaking as she looked at her watch; time was running out. She bent
down and removed the contents of the case, piling everything on the damp
and dirty floor. She ran her hand around the sides of the empty bag,
then along the bottom, and felt the lining shift.

An edge of the fabric was loose in one corner, its underside tacky.

She pulled at it and it began to lift.

The fabric had been glued to a piece of stiff cardboard cut to mimic the
bottom of the bag. It had been done recently; the glue was still sticky.
This false bottom had then been glued into place oven-what?

A quick tug and up it came, revealing a space some two inches deep
between the false and true bottoms. Nestled in this space were five flat
plastic bags of white powder.

Quickly Lucy removed the first bag and held it over the toilet, ripping
the plastic with her fingernail. The powder cascaded into the bowl and
she flushed it away. She emptied the next bag, flushed; then the next.

When all the bags were empty, she flushed them, too. She went to the
sink and washed her hands, then soaked some paper towels and washed out
the bottom of the case. When it was thoroughly clean and dry, she
repacked the bag and left the ladies' room, shoving the false bottom
into a large trash can beside the door as she went.

Mcnulty was pacing just outside, the can of soda still in his hand.

"You okay?" he asked, studying her face. "You look sort of funny."

"Stomach bug," Lucy said shortly. "Which way's the gate?"

"Over there." He thrust the soda toward her.

"Cola's good for settling the stomach."

"True." Lucy took the can and went through the motions of drinking,
sucking the liquid up into the clear straw but holding her tongue over
the top of it.

Seeing the cola rise in the straw, seeing her appear to swallow, Mcnulty
nodded and smiled. "That'll fix you right up," he said approvingly.
"You'll see."

"I feel better already," she told him as she ditched the can. She
worried about what symptoms to fake and how soon he'd expect them to
start, but the flight was boarding as they reached the gate, and it
turned out not to be a problem.

He'd come so close, she thought as the plane lifted off. So damn close.
If Mcnulty hadn't pushed quite so hard .. .

They banked and began to climb through the clouds, heading west. She
pictured Mcnulty hurrying back to the departure lounge, dialing a phone
number.

Yes, she drank the soda. Yes, she took the goods with her. Everything
went according to plan.

That's what you think, Doctor Bill, she thought with cold fury. You
haven't won yet.

Their arrival at Kennedy Airport in New York was late but uneventful.

She cleared Immigration without any difficulty and was heading for the
Customs area when several grim-faced federal agents intercepted her.

They escorted her to a small room where they emptied her travel bag and
searched it and its meager contents thoroughly. Obviously surprised at
not finding the contraband Lucy had dumped into a toilet hours before,
they questioned her extensively, then called in a policewoman and
subjected her to a strip search. During the ordeal, Lucy said as little
as possible, her plan already well-formed. When, eventually, they were
forced to release her and her possessions, she hurried through the empty
terminal to the taxi stand.

"He's a dupe?" Rossetti stared at Tom across the scratched Formica
table. He shook his head in frustration.

"Just three days ago, you suggested Miller was using the IMA to run
drugs to raise money for left-wing terrorism. Now you're saying he's
being used, that he's an innocent--"

"That's not what I'm saying," Tom replied heatedly.

"It isn't that simple." He cast a furtive look around the nearly empty
diner.

"You bet it's not simple. You want to tell me what's going on?"

The older man turned the cracked coffee mug around in his hands.

"We've been tracking two different .. . situations over the past few
years," he continued at last. "I asked for this meeting because it's
suddenly occurred to ... somebody that the two might be connected."

Rossetti nodded sagely. "Clear as mud."

"I know. Just listen." Tom waved away the waitress in her tired pink
uniform, then turned back to Mike.

"Situation One: Is a well-known, respected doctor financing left-wing
terrorism? This is something you and I have discussed before. Here's
Bill Miller, an eminent medical man, a selfless healer, a sophisticated
art collector, a wealthy supporter of charitable causes--"

"And a left-wing drug runner."

"Don't jump the gun." Tom drank some coffee.

"Yvette was a Parisian living in Brittany when--"

"Yvette?"

"Bill's mother. French. She met his father toward the end of the Second
World War. Dad was a decorated naval officer. They married.

Miller pere was reassigned to a mid-level job at the Pentagon, and they
settled in Virginia. Bill was born there. His father was well placed,
his mother played her European Culture card for all it was worth, and
the family enjoyed a reasonably affluent lifestyle. Nice house, good
schools, hobnobbing with middle-level diplomats, military and cultural
attaches, that sort of thing."

"CIA people part of their social circle?"

"I should think so; it comes with the territory. Anyway, Yvette
convinced Bill to attend the Sorbonne in Paris after prep school. He
lurked on the fringes of various university political action groups,
left-wingers to neo-Nazis, but apparently never became a card-carrying
anything. His mother died during his third year, and he immediately
transferred to Harvard, then went on to Harvard Medical School. His old
man died about ten years ago."

"And Bill went on to found the IMA. Cue the music, roll the credits."

"Come on, Mike. The point is. Miller's lived an exemplary life--"

"Aside from the drug running."

"We can't prove that," Tom cautioned. "What I've been trying to tell you
is that some of his international fund-raising contacts are rather .. .
interesting." Tom sipped his coffee. "Which leads us to Situation Number
Two."

Mike held up a hand to silence Tom, then signaled to the waitress for a
refill of coffee. When the woman had departed, he said, "Go on."

"Number Two is this: In recent years, rumors have surfaced about a
shadowy figure, a powerful man who clothes his extreme right-wing
beliefs in left-wing polemic.

A man who favors ethnic cleansing and elitist world domination. A man
with sufficient financial and political backing to attempt to bring it
about."

"Featuring himself in the starring role?" Tom nodded.

"And you're suggesting Bill Miller could be  ... ?"

"No, of course not. The politics are wrong. But Miller could be being
used."

"By this shadowy figure?" Mike shook his head.

"I thought we agreed that Miller supports left-wing terrorism, not
right-wing."

"Yes, but so does The Shadow, at least outwardly."

"So you think this guy could be using Miller to promote left-wing
terrorism? Why?"

"Several reasons." He took a gulp of tepid coffee, then pushed it away.
"One, Miller's great at fundraising.

I'm talking multimillions. Two, despite his urbane upbringing, Miller
seems a bit naive, politically." Mike frowned. "What?"

"Nothing," Rossetti said, looking troubled. "Go on."

"Okay, three: Miller's got excellent international contacts--family
friends, his years at the Sorbonne, his medical eminence.. .. That could
be very useful to the right person. Four, there's the IMA, a perfect
setup for collecting and laundering money. And five, Miller has the
support of some well-placed spooks.

Remember what I told you about the approval of the IMA Level Four lab?"

Mike nodded. "Okay, I see what you're driving at.

But why would this shadow of yours want to promote left-wing terrorism
if he's a right-wing fanatic?"

"Think about it," Tom urged, his voice low.

"What's one possible result of widespread left-wing terrorism? Besides
murder and mayhem, that is." Rossetti shrugged. "A widespread right-wing
backlash," Tom told him triumphantly. "Hell, it's already happening;
read the newspapers. This guy could be promoting left-wing terrorism in
order to promote a right-wing backlash, one that could ultimately lift
him to power. Manipulated correctly. Miller could be very, very useful
to such a man."

Rossetti shook his head. "I'm not convinced. It's all just .. .

supposition."

"You're right; it is. But if these two scenarios are connected, if
Miller is being run by The Shadow, he may have something else up his
sleeve."

"What?"

"That's for you to find out, Mike." He smiled grimly. "That's why we pay
you the big bucks."

Chapter Twenty-six (.

"I can't come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and
number .. ."

Rick slammed down the receiver of the pay phone.

Her flight had landed two hours ago, and he'd confirmed she'd been on
board; where the hell was she?

His face tight, he pulled up the collar of his anorak and flagged down a
cab.

The lobby was dark and quiet. The night guard lounged behind the
polished reception desk, drinking coffee and reading the Daily News.

Over toward the elevators, a young man in a brown coverall mopped
listlessly at the green marble floor. "Help you?" the guard inquired
languidly as Rick approached.

"Going up to my office," Rick told him briskly, brandishing his attache
case. "Getting ready for a big meeting tomorrow."

"Sign in," the man told him, jerking a thumb at a lined notebook.

Rick scrawled "Louis Pasteur, IMA," and started for the bank of
elevators. "Uh, is the nineteenth floor unlocked?" he asked, turning
back.

The guard glanced at the notebook. "You're with the IMA?"

"That's right. Uh, we've got an emergency situation."

"You don't have keys?"

"Not with me. They beeped me, told me to get right over here." He waited
tensely for the guard to ask the obvious question: How come he had his
attache case with him but not his keys?

The question never came.

"If the outer door's locked, Jose can open it for you," the guard told
him, waving a hand toward the floor mopper. "He's the one lets in the
cleaners."

"I better take him with me," Rick suggested.

"Speed things up."

"Whatever," said the guard, returning to his paper.

"There you go." Jose unlocked the small door set at right angles to the
thick plate-glass double doors reading ima in discreet gold letters, and
swung it open.

"Thanks," Rick told him. "Uh, I'll need you to unlock my office, too."

The man looked doubtful. "You don't have your office key?" he asked,
eyeing the attache case in Rick's hand.

"Left 'em at home, I'm afraid," Rick replied, and smiled engagingly.

"This meeting tomorrow kind of caught me on the run."

Jose thought for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay," he said. "Which one's
yours?"

Rick thought back to his recent meeting with Miller, trying furiously to
remember where his office was.

Coming in through this side entrance had disoriented him. "Along here,"
he said. Bill's was a corner office, he recalled, at the end of a
hallway to the left of the main reception area. He strode purposefully
down the corridor in what he thought was the right direction, flicking
on a few lights so he could read the nameplates beside the closed office
doors. "Over there," he said, spying Miller's nameplate with some
relief.

The porter fiddled with the lock and the door swung open. With his
thumb, he depressed a button on the side of the door above the lock.

"Just pull the door closed when you leave," he explained. "It'll lock
automatically."

"Thanks." Rick waited until he heard the distant sound of the side door
closing, then entered Miller's office and shut the door firmly behind
him. Flicking on the light, he crossed to the desk and searched through
the few papers stacked there. The disk wasn't there, but he hadn't
really expected it would be. The center drawer was unlocked and filled
with the usual pens, pencils, breath mints, and paper clips.

The side drawers were locked.

The desk was a beauty, all polished rosewood and brass. Rick admired it
for a moment, shrugged, removed a hammer and screwdriver from the
attache case and smashed the drawer locks open. He went quickly through
the contents, pawing through files, shaking the contents of envelopes
out onto the desk, and hitting pay dirt at last as he ruffled through
the pages of an unused legal pad.

Turning on the desk computer, he inserted the bright green disk, slid
into Miller's leather chair, and began to read.

The shabby figure shuffled slowly along the street, shoulders hunched
against the cold, a dirty paper cup extended, without much hope, to the
few passersby.

It was late, time to bed down in the doorway he'd staked claim to. His
stomach growled. He hadn't thought to eat before, and now he was hungry.

Two women approached, made a wide detour around him, and hurried away.

He pulled his gray balaclava down over his ears and looked after them,
muttering loudly.

For several minutes the snow-encrusted street remained empty. Then a man
in a smartly cut overcoat came strolling down the block, a paper bag in
his gloved hand. As he drew alongside, a smell of hot grease wafted
toward the shivering figure, drawing him like a magnet.

Listlessly, he extended his cup. To his surprise, the man stopped,
fished in his pocket, and came up with some small change. Not enough for
a meal, the beggar thought, cursing and turning away.

"Ray?" the man called softly after him. "Aren't you Ray?"

Ray turned back, scowling. "So what?"

"I brought you something to eat." Ray's eyes went to the brown bag.

There were grease stains on it. "A burger," the man continued, "and
fries. And hot chocolate."

He extended the bag. "Take it."

"Why you bringing me food?" Ray demanded suspiciously, but his hand was
already reaching for the bag.

"It's a present," the man told him.

"Present?" Ray puzzled over this foreign concept briefly, then shrugged;
food was food. He drew out the burger, unwrapped it, and took a large
bite. It was good. "Why you giving me presents?" he inquired, his mouth
full.

"It's not from me. It's from the doc."

"Doc who?" Ray took another bite.

"You know. The doc. That nice woman doctor you talk to, sometimes.

She thought you might be hungry."

"Oh, yeah, the doc," Ray mumbled, chewing. Gripping the bag tightly, he
headed for his doorway. It would be nice to drink the hot chocolate in
his doorway.

The man hesitated, then went after him, watching as the shabby figure
seated himself on the low step out of the wind and pried up the lid of
the steaming drink. "Enjoy your meal. Ray," he said. "Stay warm."

Ray waved him away and began attacking the fries while he waited for the
cocoa to cool a little. The man crossed the street and moved off a few
yards, then stopped and turned back, watching as Ray began gulping down
the hot liquid. Nestled in his doorway. Ray finished the food and drink,
then leaned back and closed his eyes, suddenly tired. The man stepped
back into the shadows and waited ten minutes by his gold wristwatch.
Then he recrossed the street and knelt down beside the dormant figure.

"Ray?" he said softly. "Want some money. Ray?"

There was no reply, but he'd expected none. Stripping off his leather
glove, he felt among the rags that covered Ray's chest, paused, then
moved his fingers up to the neck, feeling for the carotid artery.

Nodding with satisfaction, he retrieved the empty cup that had held the
cocoa. Casting his eyes left and right, he rose and walked quickly down
the street. At the end of the block, he dropped the cup into a trash
bin, turned the corner, and disappeared.

How long will it take them to find out I was released?

Lucy worried as she hurried through the darkened reception area. How
long before they realize I didn't go home? It was clear they hadn't yet
learned the true state of things; the lab was unguarded. You were so
sure of me. Bill, she thought. Too sure.

Quickly she stripped off her clothing, donned scrubs and a spacesuit,
and ran through the decon shower into Level Four, grabbing a small
biocontainment hatbox from a storage closet on her way. The suit was
designed to be plugged into ceiling air hoses; Anders's secret lab had
none. She'd have to work fast, going back and forth between the two
Level Four labs to plug into the air supply. First stop was her own
workstation, where she gathered up all her samples and dumped them into
the hatbox. Moving on to the lab refrigerator, she did the same with the
peruvia samples stored there. Then, going quickly to Carl's work
station, she hit the button that opened the hidden wall panel. She took
several deep breaths to pump up the oxygen level in her lungs, then
disconnected the air hose, picked up the hatbox, and went through.

A small commercial refrigerator stood beside Carl's secret workstation.

She set down the biocontainment box and wrenched open the fridge door.

Vials of pale pink liquid glowed faintly in the interior light. There
were two open, molded-plastic test-tube holders containing three vials
each, and two similar ones, one behind the other, each holding six
vials. She was stunned to see that although the holders themselves were
labeled, the individual tubes were not. More than careless, this was a
highly dangerous practice. She scanned the labels on the vial holders.
The two six-packs contained peruvia b; the others, peruvia and p.
moribundi respectively.

Her original plan had been simply to remove all the virions from the
lab. But seeing that the vials themselves weren't labeled, she now
decided to substitute tubes of the harmless inoculant, peruvia b, for
the lethal strains she would remove from the fridge, and to put
water-filled tubes in place of the vials of peruvia b she would be
moving, in the hope of delaying the discovery of her theft.

She fumbled the peruvia vials out of their open test-tube holder,
cursing her clumsiness in the thick gloves, and placed them gently into
the small biocontainment box. Opening one of the packs of peruvia b, she
quickly transferred three vials into the peruvia holder.

Her lungs straining, she opened the pack of p. moribundi, and lifted out
the three vials, setting them on the work surface before fitting vials
of peruvia b in the three empty places. In a storage cabinet, she found
a carton of empty test tubes with rubber stoppers, and additional molded
vial packs.

She was growing lightheaded, and hurried back through the panel for a
fill-up of air. As she sucked in the deep, cool breaths, she wondered
again whether Miller knew she'd escaped the trap he'd so carefully
arranged, and felt her stomach contract with tension.

Once he realized she hadn't gone back to her apartment, he'd know
immediately where she must be.

How long did she have before they came after her?

Back in Carl's lab, she took a vial holder from the cabinet and labeled
it in red with one of Carl's markers, then knelt down and took the
peruvia vials out of the hatbox. She set them carefully into the labeled
vial holder and replaced them in the hatbox. She went back to the
cabinets and took down three test tubes.

She filled them with water, then dipped the tip of the red marker into
each. She stoppered the tubes, shook them lightly, and set them into
three of the six empty spaces in the peruvia b holder. The faint pink
tinge wasn't an exact match with the peruvia b tubes in the second
six-pack, but it was pretty close. She pushed the second pack well back
in the fridge, just in case.

She was reaching for three more empty tubes when an alarm bell began
ringing faintly inside her head.

Oxygen starvation? she wondered, then noticed a light flashing above the
opening between the two Level Four labs and realized the alarm bell was
real. Someone must be entering Level Four from the IMA side.

Her lungs were screaming for air as she dropped the tubes back into
their box and slammed the cabinet and fridge doors shut, then grabbed
the biocontainment box and ran through the opening in the tile wall.

She shoved the hatbox inside a storage cabinet on the IMA side and
jammed an air hose into her suit. She'd taken several quick breaths and
was casting around for a hiding place when she remembered the three
moribundi vials she'd left on the work surface. Pulling free of the air
hose, she rushed back through the wall and grabbed the three vials, then
hesitated. Which way should she go? She spun around, her mind racing.

Could she get out of the lab via the Star of Hope side? No, she'd need
portable air to use Carl's airless decontamination shower. Could she
hide somewhere on the IMA side, then slip into the decon shower once the
unwelcome visitors had come through it? Did she have time to close the
secret panel? She turned back to find her questions meaningless.

Three figures in black spacesuits equipped with portable air packs stood
between her and her escape route.

"I told Bill you'd come here," Carl said through his helmet microphone
as the two men took hold of her.

The distortion of the headset built into her suit did nothing to
mitigate the menace in his voice.

He came toward her, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the vials in her
hand. Carefully he pried them from her fingers. "Indulging in a little
industrial sabotage, my dear?" He opened the fridge and peered in.

"Stealing the inoculant, I see," he said, removing and examining the
half-empty peruvia b six-pack. "And the rest of the virions, too, no
doubt, if we hadn't stopped you." Lucy struggled against the hands that
held her but only succeeded in using up the remainder of her air.

"Filovirus research is dangerous work," Carl continued, slipping the
three tubes he'd taken from her into a bio-pouch suspended at his waist.
"Very dangerous, indeed. As you're about to find out." He returned the
half-empty six-pack to the fridge and removed the moribundi three-vial
holder. "Take her through to her workstation," he instructed the goons.
He lifted out one of the test tubes and replaced the holder in the
fridge before following them into the IMA section.

Then he pressed the button beneath the counter and returned the tile
wall to its original solid state.

"Put her down on the floor near her workbench," he ordered. "And plug in
her air hose. We can't have her suffocating. That wouldn't give the
correct impression." He smiled, watching as they manhandled Lucy into
position. "Tape her up." One of the men unrolled a length of strong tape
and despite her struggling, managed to bind her wrists together, then
her ankles.

Still holding the tube he'd taken from the moribund! holder, Carl wiped
its rubber stopper with an alcohol swab and took a fresh syringe from
Lucy's work cabinet.

"No, the impression we want to create," he explained to Lucy, as he
inserted the syringe into the vial in his hand and carefully drew off
two cc's of liquid, "is that of an unfortunate laboratory accident."

He held up the syringe, admiring the faint pink glow of its contents.

"Hold her steady," he directed. He turned the syringe around, gripping
it like a dagger.

"The mortality rate of peruvia moribund!," he told Lucy conversationally
as he walked toward her, "is about ninety percent.

You already know that, of course, since you read my report."

Lucy cried out and shrank away, but the blacksuited men held her
securely.

Carl kept coming. "I'm afraid this will hurt," he told her. He leaned
down and wiped at the leg of her suit with an alcohol swab.

"You're insane. You can't--" He lunged, stabbing the syringe through the
protective suit and into her thigh, sending the virus coursing through
her bloodstream. Her screams sounded loud in her helmet. This can't be
happening, she thought wildly. Then she realized what he'd actually
done.

Carl withdrew the syringe and applied a strip of tape to the nearly
invisible hole. "Wouldn't want anything else to kill you," he explained,
patting her shoulder.

"Not that there's much risk. Despite my best efforts, nothing in here is
airborne. You can release her now," he told the men. "Wait for me in
decon."

As the men retreated, Lucy tried to rise, but Carl kicked her lightly in
the stomach, sending her sprawling.

"Moribundi kills within thirty-six hours or so, so you just sit tight,"
he told her mildly. "Of course, we'll lock the decon shower from the far
side. The mission side's already secure." He leaned back against the
work counter, staring down at her. "I did warn you, Dr. Nash, that if I
went after you with a syringe of lethal pathogen, I wouldn't miss." He
shook his head sadly. "Women don't belong on Level Four.

I've always said so."

"Where are you taking the vials?" Lucy whispered, eyeing the bio-pouch.

"Ah, so glad you asked." Carl withdrew one of the tubes. "When we
introduce peruvia moribund! to the world, my friends and I plan to be
immune." He swabbed the vial's rubber seal with alcohol, selected a
fresh syringe from the cabinet, and inserted the needle tip into the
vial.

"No, Carl. Don't!"

"Oh, it's not for you," he said, ripping open the join between his suit
and glove and swabbing the skin beneath his scrubs. "The inoculant is
for me." He slipped in the needle and Lucy watched in horror as the
level in the syringe went down. When it was empty, he tossed it onto the
counter. "Good-bye, Dr. Nash," he said. He walked quickly to the decon
shower door and pulled it open. "So nice to have known you." He stepped
inside and shut the door behind him.

With difficulty, Lucy rolled to her knees, then levered herself erect.

She stood there, swaying slightly, her eyes fixed on the door through
which Carl had exited. In a day or so, someone would come to "discover"
her accident. But there would be no accident.

Because of her vial switching, Carl had unwittingly injected her with
peruvia b.

And he'd injected himself with peruvia moribundi.

Chapter Twenty-seven.

"I need your help."

Renee looked askance at the flushed and breathless man before her. "It
is very late. You should have called first."

She swung the apartment door closed, but he shoved it open again before
it could latch. "It's important," he told her.

"Perhaps to you." Renee scowled at him, drawing the semitransparent
negligee around her body in a gesture that emphasized what she was
purportedly attempting to hide.

"To both of us. Please."

She frowned slightly but stepped back, allowing him to enter the dimly
lit living room. "You have ignored me for too long," she said sternly.

"Suddenly you arrive here in the middle of the night and expect me to
fall into your arms? I think not."

Rick shook his head. "That's not why I'm here," he said quickly, trying
to keep from his face the relief he felt at her words. "I have far too
much respect for you to--"

"Well, perhaps I will forgive you," she told him, taking his hand and
leading him to the sofa. "Do you want a drink?"

"No, thanks. Renee, I--"

"I think I will have one." She went to the small bar against one wall
and poured herself a scotch, neat.

"I'm sorry I woke you."

"I wasn't sleeping." She turned back toward him.

"You said you needed my help?"

"Yes. I've lost Lucy."

Renee's eyes blazed, "Your little romance goes sour and I am supposed to
care? How dare you"

"Not like that, for godsake," Rick exclaimed quickly. "I mean, I've lost
track of her. You know Miller told me to stay close to her. I went to
the airport this evening," he continued, telling the tale he'd rehearsed
on the way over from Bill's office, "but Lucy wasn't there. At least,
she didn't come through baggage claim." Renee's expression had softened
a bit, though she still eyed him warily. "Surely you don't think I care
about her personally," he declared. "After a woman like you? No, Lucy is
just business; Bill's business."

"I see. And Bill sent you after her?"

"You know he did. I told you so, weeks ago."

"I mean tonight."

Careful, Rick thought. She knows something. "Not specifically tonight,"
he answered slowly. "It's sort of an on-going thing. Why?

What happened tonight?"

"If Bill hasn't told you .. ."

"Actually, I got a message to meet him. He said he had some news."

Renee raised an eyebrow. "But I was afraid he'd ask me about Lucy
andgod, you look beautiful."

"You think so?"

"Blue is a wonderful color for you."

"Better than no color?" The negligee dropped from her shoulders and
pooled on the ground around her feet. She lifted her breasts in her
hands and offered them to him, smiling her sleepy smile.

"You know I can't do this," he said, filling his voice with regret.

"Not as long as Lucy"

"Forget Lucy," Renee told him harshly. "Lucy's dead."

Rick went white. "Dead?"

"As good as."

So she's not dead yet, he thought frantically. There still might be
time-- "What happened?"

"Bill and Carl took care of her," Renee explained.

She kneeled in front of him and began stroking his crotch. "We don't
have to worry about her anymore."

"The drug scam?" Rick asked, his mind working furiously. "Heroin in her
luggage, like Jeanpierre?"

Renee's hand stopped moving. "You knew about that?"

"Bill told me." He took her nipple between his fingers.

"Is that how they dealt with Lucy?"

"Ah, caro," she sighed, her eyes closing. "Don't stop."

Rick stopped. "First, tell me."

Renee's eyes flicked open again. "The heroin, yes.

But it didn't work. No one knows why. It doesn't matter.

Fortunately that stupid woman went straight to the lab. Carl Anders is
arranging something."

"Arranging what?"

"An accident. Bill said."

"What kind of accident?" Rick asked, his voice tense.

Renee shrugged. "What does it matter? Mmm .. .

I have missed you."

"You'll have to miss me a little longer," he told her, brushing away her
searching hands. "I have to meet Bill."

"Not now?"

"Right now. But when I come back--" He bent and bit her nipple and she
gasped with pleasure. "Wait for me?"

"Perhaps." She smiled archly.

He ran for the door, wrenched it open, and went through it, banging it
closed behind him.

The streets were deserted and the taxi made good time. Good enough?

he wondered tensely, urging the driver on. They pulled up outside the
IMA lab and Rick threw money at the man and leaped out, unlocking the
outer door with his cardkey and hurrying through the small unguarded
lobby.

He'd feared the steel doors, left open during business hours, would be
locked in place across the plate-glass entrance, and was surprised to
find them swung back against the wall. Of course, he realized; to make a
lab accident believable, the doors would have to be left open.

He hurried through the darkened reception area, quickly searching every
lab, every storage closet.

Nothing. That meant only one thing.

He sprinted down the hall to the Bio Level Four staging area. Quickly he
stripped off his clothing and donned scrubs and spacesuit, then hurried
into the decon shower.

The shower's exit door was locked, and he had a quick moment of panic
before realizing it was bolted from his side. He slid the bolt open and
stepped out into the Level Four lab, calling, "Lucy? Can you hear me?"

Exhausted from hours of traveling, her time sense confused, Lucy had
fallen in a troubled sleep on the floor beneath her workbench. Now she
woke and looked around, startled. Was that Rick's voice, calling her?

But he wasn't cleared for Level Four access; in fact, he'd declared the
entire concept frighteningly claustrophobic. But of course Rick isn't
who he says he is, she reminded herself grimly.

"Lucy? Where are you?"

She debated answering. Had Rick come to release her, or had Carl
realized he'd injected her with the wrong virus and sent him to correct
the mistake? The decision was taken from her.

"Lucy?" Strong arms pulled her from her hiding place and began carefully
slicing the tape away from her ankles and wrists with a second scalpel.
"Are you okay?"

Lucy waited until her hands and feet were free, then scrambled up and
grabbed a scalpel from the workbench.

"Get away from me," she warned, brandishing it at him.

Rick stepped back, stunned. "What are you doing?"

"I know you're not Richard Hollander," she declared.

"You're in league with Miller and Anders."

"That's not true. I--"

"You told me yourself that you weren't cleared for Level Four, that the
whole idea made you queasy.

Now all of a sudden you ride in here like the goddamn cavalry--"

"I am the goddamn cavalry," Rick said fiercely. He reached for her arm,
then remembered the scalpel.

"Come on, Lucy. If I were on Miller's side, would I have cut you free?

Would I even be here?"

Lucy hesitated. That was true enough. Still .. .

"Don't think I'm not grateful you came charging in here," she told him
more calmly, "but who are you?

And don't tell me you're Richard Hollander from Stanford."

"Can't we talk in decon?"

"I'm not deconning yet."

"But we've got to move," Rick urged. "You don't understand--"

"No, you don't understand." She hesitated.

"There's something I have to do first."

"What?"

"I can't tell you until I know who you are and what you're doing here."

Rick nodded. "I guess it's time," he agreed. "As you say, I'm not
Richard Hollander. Professor Hollander's enjoying a sabbatical in
Japan."

"How nice for him. Go on."

"I'm here because it's highly unusual for a private lab to be licensed
for Level Four work."

"To put it mildly."

"Especially when the license approval was backed by a couple of lads at
the CIA, apparently acting on their own. But the license itself was
obtained legitimately and all the design and inspection procedures were
adhered to. There was nothing illegal about the IMA operation, at least
nothing anybody could find.

So they put me in place to nose around, see what I could come up with."

"They? The CIA?"

"You think I'm a Spook?" Rick seemed to find the idea amusing. "No, I'm
a scientist, just like you. Well, not exactly like you. I'm with the
military; USAMRIID.

They lent me to the FBI anti-terrorist unit."

"You're with the Army Medical Research Institute?

My father had friends there. I can check you out."

"Please do. But can we get out of here first?"

"You still haven't told me your name."

"Major Michael Rossetti." He gave her a small salute.

"My friends call me Mike."

"Of which you have many, I'm sure," Lucy said, setting the scalpel back
on the workbench, "what with the scrupulous honesty you bring to your
interpersonal relationships."

"Surely you don't think that what we had, uh, have, together is anything
to do with--"

"I'll allow you to attempt to convince me of that, sometime," Lucy told
him with a tiny smile. She hesitated.

"Actually, I've heard of you. My friend Monica was involved in a joint
study--"

"Monica Geyer? Anthrax?"

"That's right." Lucy sagged with relief. He had to be telling the truth.
Or was there some other way he could have learned about Monica and the
anthrax study? Her smile died.

"I guess I can't blame you for still being suspicious," Mike said.

"Maybe it'll help if I tell you about the computer disk that's taped to
my shin."

"You have a computer disk taped to your shin?

That's against all safety protocols--"

"It was too important to leave in the dressing room.

It's a copy of a disk I found in Bill's office." He paused. "I'm not
sure how much you know about what's really going on here, but that
second viral strain really does exist. And there's a third one called
moribundi--"

"I know. Carl injected me with it. It's all right," she added quickly,
hearing his sharp intake of breath. "He only thought he did. I'd been
packing up the viruses, planning to take them out of here, and I
switched the vials. He actually injected me with the inoculant."

"Thank God for that."

"He gave himself the moribund!."

"Jesus. Does he know?"

"No, he wouldn't listen to me. He needs to be found and quarantined
before he accidentally infects anyone else."

"I called Tom--my FBI contact--when I read the disk. They'll be looking
for him as soon as they can get a bench warrant. Miller, too."

"Can you reach him? Warn him about the virus Carl's carrying?"

"I'll try."

"There's something else you should warn him about. Carl said something
about a plan to introduce moribund! to the world."

"Blackmail with a lethal pathogen," Mike said. "It's all on the disk."

He looked around. "There's supposed to be a secret lab somewhere--" He
turned back to study Lucy. "You found it, didn't you?" She nodded.

"And Bill knew you found it and sent you to Africa.

Why did you go?"

"I thought Bill was innocent. I thought he didn't know, that he was
being used by Carl."

"I thought that, too, for a while. When did you realize?"

"When I found the drugs in my suitcase." She studied Mike through the
faceplate of her helmet for some moments. "Okay, I believe you. At
least, I believe you're not on Miller's side." She went to Carl's
workstation and pressed the hidden button. "All the virions are in
there," she explained as the section of wall folded inward. "It'll go
faster if you help me. Oh, there's no air inside, so take a deep
breath."

Lucy retrieved the biocontainment box she'd hidden and together they
went into Carl's secret lab. Working quickly, they packed up all the
vials and sealed the box shut. Lucy closed the wall between the two
labs, and they carried the box with them into the decon shower.

Seven minutes can seem like a long time when you're standing in the mist
of a chemical shower, waiting for the timer to release you. But it was
barely long enough for Mike to tell Lucy what he'd found on the computer
disk, and for Lucy to square it with what she herself had come to
suspect.

"Three years ago," Mike explained, "Carl, funded by Miller, secretly
created a new filovirus called sangre negra."

"But the IMA Level Four lab didn't exist back then."

"It didn't need to. Carl did the work secretly at a Mexican lab where he
was already working in Level Four on a hantavirus of the same name.

Used the name to camouflage his work with Ebola."

"Ebola? What's Ebola got to do with this?"

"Ebola was the starting point," Mike explained.

"See, Carl had had some experience with Ebola--not many people have--and
he'd hoped that by changing the genetic coding for two of the viral
proteins, he could create a strain that would give immunity against
Ebola." Lucy nodded; this explained the uncanny resemblance to the Ebola
virion that she'd seen in her research. "He seeded this strain in a
rural, isolated area of the Peruvian rain forest," Mike continued, "but
it proved highly lethal, wiping out a large proportion of the indigenous
population."

"But not everybody," Lucy said. "At least two people survived."

"Yes, but Carl didn't know that, then. He went back to the lab and tried
again, this time creating peruvia.

By now he was working in the new IMA lab. He chose a spot some twenty
miles from the original test site, and, under the guise of IMA medical
air, managed to inject it into the small, local indio population. It
proved to be a milder version of sangre negra, but still too potent to
use as an inoculant."

"You mean, IMA doctors actually participated in the experiment?"

"Not knowingly."

"Jesus."

"His next try," Mike continued, "produced moribundi, a real killer. By
now he must have been getting pretty worried about being able to come up
with the inoculant he'd promised Miller. But then you were sent to Peru,
and he got lucky."

"The second strain I collected from the two indios who ran away. The
strain that turned up in the CDC sample."

"And in one of the samples that went to the IMA lab. The indios had
survived sangre negra three years before and trekked through the jungle,
ending up near the settlement Carl later chose for testing peruvia.

There may have been other survivors, too; we'll never know. Anyway, it
turned out that, inside the indios' bodies, the original sangre negra
virion had mutated into peruvia b, a new strain that gave full immunity
against both peruvia and moribund!. Doesn't say how Carl knew that,
though; there doesn't seem to have been another trip to Peru."

"There didn't need to be," Lucy said, remembering the deserted ward with
its sickly smell of formaldehyde.

"He gave moribund! to a group of homeless people. Kept them locked in a
hidden room above the mission--"

"What mission?"

"Star of Hope. It backs up to the lab building. Another group was kept
in the mission itself. They were the lucky ones."

"Lucky?"

"They were given the inoculant first."

"Christ," Mike said.

"And Miller's planning to inoculate himself and his supporters, and use
moribund! as blackmail? What for?"

"Power. Wealth. He's got the backing of several major international
financiers, the ruling political wackos of two small but fantastically
wealthy nations.. .. Miller has a vision of the way the world should be
run, and the clout to try and make it run that way."

"You mean, his left-wing politics aren't just talk?"

"Left-wing? You didn't actually buy that bleedingheart act of his, did
you? No, Miller's so far right, he's practically falling off the edge.

Tom says they've been hearing about some shadowy right-wing fanatical
Mr. Big who's into world domination. He thinks Miller's being used by
this guy. But he's wrong."

"How so?"

"Miller is this guy."

For a moment, Lucy was silent. Then, "Where do the drugs fit in?"

"Fund-raising. A little side deal between Miller and the Mafia, courtesy
of the Contessa depalma."

"Renee? I never did like her."

"Neither did I," Mike replied truthfully.

"Did Jean .. . ?" Lucy began tentatively. "Was he ... part of it?"

"I don't think so," Rick replied gently. "He had his little art scam,
but he wasn't a drug runner. The FBI suspects Miller's been using IMA
medical personnel as mules for years, without their knowledge. And they
weren't the only people he used. Most IMA contributors have no idea of
its true purpose." He glanced at the hatbox on the floor between them.
"What are you planning to do with that?"

"I hadn't gotten that far," Lucy said. "I just wanted to get it all out
of there, out of their reach, and then call the CDC."

"My car's in a garage nearby. We can lock it in the trunk until the CDC
can send someone to pick it up."

"Okay. But I want you to give me the car keys first."

"I saved your life and you still don't trust me?"

"I'll check you out with USAMRIID from a pay phone at the parking
garage. Then I'll trust you."

"You're going to have to wake up some pretty important people to get me
identified at this time of night."

"I am and I will."

Mike looked at her with new respect. "Well, after we've established my
identity, maybe I can buy you an early breakfast while Tom and the boys
track down Miller and Company."

But Lucy shook her head. "Since Bill and Carl think I'm trapped here,
dying of peruvia moribund!, I want to go back to my apartment. You can
fix us something to eat, and I can take a much-needed shower." And
there's something there we just might need, she thought to herself.

Mike frowned but said nothing.

The decon shower shut off and they left, carrying the hatbox out with
them.

Chapter Twenty-eight.

The black Range Rover glided quietly to the curb, flashing its
headlights impatiently. A tall figure, muffled in fur, came out of a
small, elegant building and approached the vehicle. The driver rolled
down the window.

"Why didn't you call me sooner?" he asked curtly.

The fur-clad figure came around and slid into the front passenger seat.

"It didn't seem all that strange at first," she said. "It was only
later, when I thought about it  ..."

"Didn't seem strange?" Bill put the car into gear and pulled out into
the empty street. "The man turns up without warning, in the middle of
the night, asking where Lucy is--"

"Begging me to make love with him," Renee corrected angrily. "He said he
only wanted to know about Lucy because he was afraid you would ask him
about her when he met with you."

"Met with me? At three o'clock in the morning?"

Renee shrugged. "I thought he was working for you."

"So did I," Bill said grimly.

"You are too careless." Renee opened her coat, revealing black leather
pants and a striped sweater.

"You should never have told him about using your doctors as mules."

The car swerved, almost sideswiping a parked delivery truck. "He knew
about that?" Bill demanded.

"Yes, and about planting the drugs on Lucy, too."

"Shit," Bill banged the wheel in frustration.

"Mr. Tortoriello will not be happy about this."

"He won't be overjoyed with you, either," Bill shot back. "If you hadn't
told Hollander--" The sound of the car phone interrupted him.

"Yes?"

"It's Carl. You were right; she's gone. The virions, too. But I have a
vial of each of the important ones."

"You idiot," Miller exploded. "You should have secured the building when
you left."

"You were the one who wanted everything to look normal," Carl protested.
"Locking her inside Level Four was a good plan, until that cow started
talking about it. Even then, we should have been all right.

Hollander isn't cleared for Level Four."

"Apparently that didn't stop him," Bill said bitterly.

"Well, how was I supposed to know? He always said--"

"Shut up, Carl."

Miller paused, thinking. "Get back inside the lab and stay there.

I've got men combing the city for Hollander and Nash. We'll bring them
back there and do the job right."

"Uh, I don't think that's a very good idea," Carl said diffidently.

"Not anymore."

"And why is that?"

"There seems to be some sort of, well, surveillance."

"What?"

"What's wrong?" Renee asked. "What's happened?"

Bill waved at her to be quiet.

"They arrived after I'd left the lab," Carl was saying.

"I was just at the corner when I heard the car, but it never came past
me. I turned around and saw it park across from the lab entrance, but
nobody got out. Look, I have the vials with me. I could meet you at the
office--"

"And you don't think they'll have the offices covered, too, whoever they
are?" He thought for a moment.

"Go to Banana King," he said. "Wait for me on the loading dock. Stay out
of sight." He disconnected before Carl could reply, then dialed a
number, "It's Miller," he said to someone on the other end.

"Anything?"

"You won't like it. The guard's book shows that a guy named Louis
Pasteur signed in about an hour ago.

The porter opened up the IMA offices for him."

"Louis Pasteur?" Bill asked incredulously.

"Cute, huh? The porter says he unlocked a large corner office for the
guy." My office. Bill thought.

"After Pasteur left, the porter went back to make sure everything was
locked up. Your desk was damaged and your computer monitor was on."

Bill went cold. "Can he describe this Mr. Pasteur?"

He listened tensely, telling himself that lots of people had brown hair
and eyes. But he knew who it had to be. He'd always found it a little
odd that someone of Richard Hollander's stature would choose to work at
the IMA lab, but Carl had wanted the man; Carl had been flattered.

Carl had been had. And so had he.

Hollander had mentioned the drug trafficking to Renee. Hollander had
suddenly been able to enter Level Four unassisted and unafraid. And now
Hollander, or whoever he was, undoubtedly knew the rest.

"There were a couple of unmarked cars out front," the man continued, "so
I went out through the subbasement.

Want me to stick around?"

"Definitely not." He slammed down the phone. He had to get his hands on
Hollander. Lucy was less of a problem; she'd be dead in hours. But
Hollander .. .

"I am not going to Banana King," Renee announced loudly. "I wish to be
taken home. This is nothing to do with me."

"The hell it isn't. If you hadn't told Hollander where his girlfriend--"

"Girlfriend?" Renee exclaimed. "He said Lucy was just business, that I
was the woman he wanted. He was so passionate, so--"

"He was lying, dammit. It's Lucy he's in love with.

Don't you understand? He's not really--" He broke off; no need to tell
her all of it.

"He lied to me? You are sure of this?" Renee's face contorted with fury.
"Bastard," she spat. "Bastard.

We will go and find him."

"Just what I had in mind."

"And when we do .. ." She snapped open the leather handbag that lay in
her lap and drew out a small pistol.

"Christ," Bill said. "Not that. I'll handle it my way."

"Your way is not good enough. This we know."

"Damn it, Renee--" The car phone shrilled, and Bill grabbed the receiver
and listened, then banged it down again. "A car with California plates
just entered the all-night garage underneath Lucy's building," he
reported, stepping hard on the gas. "For godsake, put that thing away."

"I do not take orders from you," Renee shot back, but she put the pistol
back in her handbag.

"That's better. We need to work together on this."

Renee shot him a sour look. "We'll see."

"I have a feeling it's against the rules of the coop board," Lucy said
dryly, "bringing a box of lethal pathogens into the building."

"Wait'll they see the CDC pickup team." Mike went to the phone. "Go take
your shower. I'm going to try Tom again."

"And make a pot of strong coffee, will you? I don't even know what day
it is, anymore."

When Lucy returned some ten minutes later, wearingblue jeans and a
sweatshirt and toweling off her hair, Mike was sitting on the living
room sofa, turning Jean-Pierre's ugly wooden statues around in his
hands.

"You reach Tom?" she asked pouring herself a cup of the dark brew he'd
prepared.

"No, but I left a message for him with the duty officer." He waggled one
of the carvings at her. "I didn't know you went in for this kind of
thing. New acquisitions?"

"Not really," Lucy replied, coming to sit beside him.

"Jean had them in his suitcase the night he was arrested. They were here
in the apartment when you came to dinner."

Mike shook his head. "I didn't see them. And believe me, I'd remember."
He traced the joins in the wood where Lucy had glued the statues back
together. "What happened to them?"

"Customs sawed them apart looking for drugs, but they didn't find any.

I put them back together for old times' sake. Ugly, aren't they?"

"Awful. But valuable, I guess. Dither knew his business."

"That's what I assumed, too. But when I showed them to some experts,
they said they weren't worth a dime."

Mike looked up sharply. "They're valueless? Then why'd he bring them
back?"

"That puzzled me, too. He told me at the Mayaruna Airport there was
something for me in his suitcase.

But these?"

"What else did he say?"

Lucy thought back. "He was jumpy, nervous. I thought it was the weather;
it was raining like hell.

He said there was something for me in the suitcase and then he warned me
to be careful. Hey, what are you doing?"

"Trying to break this sucker apart again." He smashed the statue against
the edge of the marble coffee table again, chipping the wood.

"You wouldn't have a chisel and a hammer, would you?"

"I'll get the toolbox. But I don't understand why--"

"Just a hunch."

He set the statue back on the table next to its partner. "Jean-Pierre
was an expert in valuable artifacts, yet he brought back these horrors.

Customs believed they were empty or they'd never have returned them to
you."

"They were empty."

"Look, Customs got a tip Jean was smuggling artifacts; that's why they
stopped him. But when they saw the drugs, they figured they'd found
whatever there was to find."

"And you think they missed something? But the statues are hollow."

"Jean-Pierre was an art smuggler, not a drug runner.

Go get the tools."

Working quickly, Mike separated the two halves of the male statue and
studied the thin cross-section of wood. "Hold it steady," he instructed,
handing her the bottom half. Positioning the thin chisel carefully, he
tapped gently, grunting with satisfaction as the edge of the chisel
slowly sank into the wooden skin, separating what appeared to be a
one-layer shell into two thin layers. He flaked off a section of the
inner layer and continued gently separating and flaking until, near the
bottom of the statue, the inner shell splintered away, revealing a tiny
compartment. Inside lay something concealed in surgical cotton. He took
it out and unwrapped it. An intricately carved tube of amethyst, an
inch-and-a-half long and just under an inch in diameter, gleamed in his
palm.

Lucy gasped. "What is it?"

"I'm not sure," Mike said. "But I bet it's worth a fortune." He examined
the cylinder carefully. "Looks Middle Eastern. Is your computer
connected to the Internet?"

"Yes." She booted up her PC, logged on through her provider network, and
handed over to Mike, who surfed rapidly through various art indices.

"It's a carved cylinder seal," he said triumphantly.

"From Mesopotamia--that's Iraq to you. Dates from somewhere between 2500
and 3500 b.c."

"Jesus."

"Indeed. Most were made from semiprecious stones or precious metals."

He hit some keys. "According to the New York Times, sanctions against
the Iraqi government are causing wealthy Iraqis to sell off items from
their private collections in order to stay solvent."

He scanned down the article. "It seems there are highly specialized
markets for these things, primarily in New York, London, and Tokyo."

"Jean hinted to Stanislas he was bringing in something special."

"This is special, all right." Mike logged off and shut down the PC.

"Let's open the other one."

Together they pried apart the wooden lining of the female carving. Two
cylinders had been secreted in this statue, one of intricately worked
gold and silver, the other of exquisitely carved topaz.

"So that's why he was meeting Jorge Melendez."

She frowned. "What was Melendez doing with Mesopotamian cylinder seals?"

"Art smuggling is an international business," Mike reminded her. "Who
knows how many times they've changed hands?"

"They're so beautiful," Lucy said, examining the seals. "But I still
don't understand something. If the only reason for the statues was to
hide these cylinders, why did Jean keep telling me there was something
for me in his suitcase?"

"Because there was: the statues." Lucy looked over at Mike
questioningly. "Smuggling artifacts meant there was always a chance of
being arrested," he explained.

"He also must have known that if Stanislas found out what he was doing,
he might take revenge.

Which he did."

"You mean Stanislas tipped off Customs?"

"Yes. You said yourself he suspected Jeanpierre was selling directly to
his customers. Stanislas decided to teach Jean a lesson. He never
expected him to be carrying drugs, too."

"Neither did Jean."

"True. Anyway, whether it was Stanislas or Mcnulty or Customs that was
worrying him, Jean must have hoped that if he ran into trouble, you'd
come forward to claim his things. The cylinder seals were so well
hidden, the chances of their being found accidentally were practically
nil. You knew nothing about art; you'd assume the statues were his gift
to you and you'd keep them. Later, he'd find an excuse to take them back
and remove the artifacts." Mike paused. "He didn't count on being
killed." Lucy winced. "Sorry." He took her hand and held it gently
between his.

"I wonder what it was about our mission that suddenly started bothering
him?" Lucy said thoughtfully.

"What do you mean?"

"Just before he boarded his flight, Jean told me to be careful. That
warning had nothing to do with the statues. Something else was worrying
him. Jack Mcnulty, perhaps. Or .. ." She thought back to their
conversation on the way to the airport--the old indio who ran from the
compound, the local name for peruvia, returning spirits.

"He'd been to South America before."

The phone rang loudly, startling them both. "Don't answer it," Mike said
quickly. Lucy looked surprised, but obeyed.

Her answering machine clicked on. A beat, and Renee's voice oozed from
the speaker. "Rick, caro, are you there? I know you are." A pause. "You
don't answer me? But it is I who should be angry at you.

You promised to come back to me tonight, to make love to me the way we
used to. I waited and I waited but you never came. Why, caro?"

"You what!" Lucy jerked her hand free. "You and Renee?"

"It's not what you think," Mike said, flushing.

"What I think is--" Lucy began furiously, but Mike shook his head.

"Later," he said. "Please."

"Rick?" Renee's voice cooed. "You are in a terrible danger. You must
leave quickly or you will die." A pause. "Still you do not answer?

But I know you can hear me, so listen. Lucy Nash has a deadly sickness.

You will catch it if you stay there. Rick?"

Motioning Lucy to silence, Mike picked up the phone, punching the
speaker button so that Lucy could hear the conversation. "Renee, it's
me. What's that about Lucy being sick?"

"That accident I told you about," Renee said.

"They injected her. She's dying."

Lucy shook her head violently and Mike nodded; she'd already told him
about the switched vials. To Renee, he said, "Where can I go? Anders
knows I rescued Lucy. He'll be after me. Miller, too. We're safer here."

"You're not," Renee said flatly. "Bill knows you're there; his men saw
you drive in." Rick looked over at Lucy, who'd gone pale.

"We're still safer if we stay here," Mike insisted, frowning.

Renee laughed. "You think Miller's men can't find a way around a
doorman? You think they can't get through a locked apartment door?

Come to my place.

He wouldn't dare attack me."

"I won't leave Lucy."

A pause. "Then bring Lucy, too," Renee said. "But hurry. I am waiting
outside with a car."

"Why would you want to help me?" Mike asked.

"You know I lied to you."

Renee sighed. "Yes, I know. But Bill Miller lied to both of us. He has
used us. He is evil."

"And you're suddenly on the side of the angels? A force for good?"

"You know me better than that. My motive is pure self-interest. Our
arrangement with Miller was limited to drugs. It didn't involve killing
Lucy. Or you."

"You telling me the Mafia's above all that?"

"Don't be stupid. But something has gone very wrong, and my boss wants
me to limit our exposure.

I'm offering you protection in return for your silence about our
involvement in the drug scheme. How about it?"

The intercom buzzed and Lucy went to answer it.

"Gas man coming up to fix that leak," the night man said.

"What? No, stop them."

"They're already on the way," he said, sounding puzzled. "With all their
equipment. Said it was an emergency."

"There's no leak here."

Mike looked over at her, his expression tense.

"Gee .. . well, I don't know what to tell you," the night man was
saying. "You better talk to them."

"Okay, Renee," Mike said, deciding. "We're on our way. Wait for us out
front." He banged down the phone and turned to Lucy. "Grab a jacket."

"You trust her?"

"Of course not. But we can't stay here. I'll leave word for Tom."

Lucy nodded. "Be right back." She disappeared in the direction of her
bedroom and Mike gathered up the cylinder seals. He was dropping them
into his pants pocket when she came running out again, a long, heavily
padded leather jacket around her shoulders and a handbag under her arm.

"She'll be expecting us to come through the lobby," Mike said. "Is there
a service entrance?"

Lucy nodded. "It comes out on the side street."

The outer hallway was still empty as they ran to the fire stairs, but
they heard the whoosh of the approaching elevator as the metal door
closed behind them.

Renee folded the cellular phone and handed it back to Miller. "That went
well."

"You were perfect," he told her admiringly.

"I am excellent at my work," she said, preening.

"But this is your last chance, you understand?" She fingered her purse.
"Then we do it my way."

Mike went first, cracking open the exterior door and looking around at
the small dark courtyard. "Stay in the shadow of the building," he
whispered, slipping out into the cold night. Lucy followed, exhausted
despite the coffee and shivering in the sudden cold. They paused beside
the brick wall and surveyed the side street beyond. "We could wait a
long time for a taxi to come past at this time of night," Lucy said,
frowning.

"It's that or walk," Mike replied. "Walking, they'll see us for sure.

They'll have people everywhere."

They remained hidden in the shadows for several minutes. "There's one,"
Lucy said suddenly, as a yellow taxi sped by.

Mike ran into the street, but the cab was well away, and he was afraid
to call out after it. He was turning back when another taxi appeared,
cruising slowly. He flagged it down and motioned to Lucy. "Come on!"

The taxi slid to a stop just beyond them, and he and Lucy piled in.

"The Nineteenth Precinct police station," Lucy ordered.

"East Sixty-seventh Street." The driver didn't reply as he stepped on
the gas.

A kneeling figure rose up from the front seat where he'd been concealed.
"Dr. Nash, I presume," he said.

The evil-looking pistol he trained on them gleamed dully in the glow
from the streetlight. "And you must be Richard Hollander. So glad you
could join us." The solid chunk of the central door-locking mechanism
engaging made Lucy jump. "No sudden moves, please, doctor. You, too,
Hollander. Hands where I can see them."

"She's been injected with a lethal virus," Mike said.

"If you don't let her out of here, we'll all die."

"Dr. Miller thought you might try that one," the man replied calmly.

"Which reminds me  ..." Keeping the gun trained on them, he reached
across the seatback toward Lucy. "I'll take that handbag, doctor."

The driver spoke softly into a portable phone.

"We're on our way." He glanced over at the man with the gun. "He wants
to know if she's got them."

Without taking his eyes off the two passengers, the gunman rifled
through Lucy's commodious purse with his free hand. "Yeah, she's got
'em," he confirmed.

Around the corner, the black Range Rover sped away, heading west.

Chapter Twenty-nine.

The taxi headed south along the Hudson River, just another late-night
cabby trying to make a buck.

Past Canal Street the driver turned east, and for a terrible moment Lucy
was sure they were being taken back to the IMA lab. But the cab made a
quick right and left and pulled up in front of a shabby two-story
warehouse attached, either side, to more of the same.

Two armed men, half hidden in the shadow of the overhanging metal roof,
came cautiously forward.

One of them approached the vehicle and looked in through the front
passenger window. "Vince?" he asked softly.

"Who else? Give me a hand with these two."

The guards helped Vince extricate Lucy and Mike from the backseat, and
escorted them up six cement steps onto a narrow loading dock. A steel
door was set into the solid metal barrier that closed off the interior
of the warehouse from the loading dock. One guard unlocked the door and
stepped aside, and Vince prodded his prisoners through the opening,
following closely, his gun drawn. The taxi had disappeared into the
night by the time the guards, having locked the door again, resumed
their positions in the deep shadow of the overhang.

The interior of the old warehouse was dim and cold.

Bluish light pooled beneath hooded, low-wattage fixtures suspended from
the low dropped ceiling. Crates of produce were stacked here and there
in the gloom, and the over-sweet smell of rotting bananas was palpable
and unpleasant.

Bill Miller stood in a puddle of light, speaking on a cellular phone.

His jacket was off and one sleeve was rolled up.

"Head out to sea," he was saying, his words echoing between the old
metal ceiling and the filthy cement floor. "Tell the launch to power up
and stand by.

We--ouch! Jesus, Carl."

"Sorry." Carl, surgical gloves on his hands and a transparent splash
hood set on his head like a sunshade, withdrew the needle and placed it
carefully back on a draped tray set on a nearby carton.

Bill ended the conversation and set the phone beside the tray. "I see
our guests have arrived." He rolled down his sleeve and reached for his
jacket. Beside him, Renee peered into the shadows.

"Lucy is here?" she said nervously. "But I have not had my injection."
She turned angrily to Carl. "Hurry up. I don't want to catch it."

"It doesn't work that way," Carl said. "Anyway, you don't need--" He
caught Miller's eye. "Okay," he relented, filling a fresh syringe.

"No!" Lucy ran toward the group as Carl plunged the needle into Rene's
upper arm. "Stop." A bullet whizzed by her, cutting a swathe through her
jacket and grazing her upper arm at the shoulder. She stumbled, grabbing
at her arm, but continued toward Renee as Carl hurriedly withdrew the
needle and stepped back.

"Lucy!" Mike started forward, but Vince jerked him back, pressing a
strong forearm hard against his windpipe.

He leveled the gun at Lucy, ready for another shot.

"Don't shoot," Bill called out. "Damn fool," he murmured. "He'll hit one
of us."

Vince frowned but lowered his gun as Renee came forward and grabbed hold
of Lucy, pinioning her arms behind her.

"Or spatter us," said Carl from the darkness into which he'd retreated.

Renee looked toward Carl's voice, puzzled.

"Spatter?"

"With her blood," Carl explained. "The virus is passed on in the blood
and fluids."

Renee stared at Lucy's torn jacket. "But we have all had the injection,"
she said. "What is there to fear?"

"It doesn't work that fast," Carl told her tiredly.

With a cry, Renee released Lucy, shoving her away.

Lucy staggered forward, the wound in her upper arm throbbing.

"Stay where you are," Bill warned Lucy, "or the gentleman with the gun
over there will shoot your lover." Vince grunted in agreement.

"Carl?" Bill looked around for the missing scientist. "Jesus, Carl,
where the fuck are you?"

Anders stepped out from behind a stack of cartons.

"We're dealing with moribundi, for chrissake. I'm not suited up. I have
no intention of risking--"

"You'll do what I tell you," Miller replied angrily.

He looked at the scientist in disgust. "No one would guess you spend
your days in a Level Four lab."

"That's different," Carl protested. "I wear a body-suit, I--"

"Shut up and prepare the injections," Bill told him testily. He turned
to Lucy.

"We've brought some sedatives for you and your boyfriend. His will be
laced with moribundi. The sedatives will make it easier to have your
bodies taken up to the lab."

"Up?" Lucy looked around curiously. "You mean, this building connects,
too?"

"Connects to what?" Renee asked.

"To the lab," Lucy explained. "See, the mission--" ,"Shut up," Bill
ordered. He stepped forward and slapped her hard across the face.

"You're too smart for your own damn good."

Lucy backed away, her cheek burning. Behind them, Lucy could hear Mike
struggling unsuccessfully to pull free of Vince's iron grip. As long as
Vince held a gun to Mike's head, she was helpless.

"Not that it matters anymore," Bill was saying. "I'm closing the lab.

Finding your bodies, yours and Rick's, will make me realize how
dangerous the Level Four operation is. I'll be distraught over losing
two of my best scientists, and I'll close the whole place down."

He smiled. "Carl can finish his work anywhere. Even at sea." Lucy
continued backing away. "His work?" she asked. "You mean blackmailing
the world with peruvia moribund!?" She saw Renee's eyes widen, saw her
turn toward Bill questioningly. Good; if she could co-opt Renee .. .
"That's why you were immunizing yourself with peruvia b just now: so you
can infect the rest of the world with moribund! and raise yourself and
your friends to power."

"What's she talking about?" Renee demanded.

"You are infecting the world with a virus?"

"She's lying," Bill said.

"It's true," Lucy insisted. "Think about it, Renee.

What kind of charitable organization uses drug running to finance its
mission?"

"Don't listen to her,"

"Drug running's one thing," Lucy continued, riding over him. "Direct
involvement in international terrorism's quite another. Did you and your
boss really sign on for that?"

"That's enough," Bill said angrily, stepping toward Lucy, but the
contessa interposed herself between them.

"Let her finish," she demanded. "Go on, Lucy."

"Get out of my way, Renee; you don't understand.

Carl, get the sedative. Let's finish this now."

"Wait." Mike's voice rang out in the musty room.

"I want to make a deal."

Bill looked across the warehouse floor to where Mike stood, a pistol
against his temple, one hand in his pocket. "A deal?" He smiled grimly.
"You have nothing to deal with."

"You're wrong. We found the artifacts Dither smuggled in, his last
trip."

"Dither smuggled drugs."

"That's because you put them there. When Customs found them, they called
in the DEA and stopped looking."

"And you didn't? You found something? And you conveniently happen to
have whatever it is with you?"

"I do."

"How very nice. I'll take them from you once you're sedated. Why should
I bargain with you for them?"

"Because I'll destroy them. I can, easily. They're very small and very
fragile."

"I'd rather inject you," he told Mike, "because it fits the cover story
better. But shooting you is always an option." He took a small pistol
from his jacket pocket. "Toss them over."

"Go ahead and shoot," Mike said. "They're in my hand right now. All I
have to do is squeeze. Conscious action or dying spasm, the result will
be the same.

Which would be a real shame. They're very rare."

"For godsake," Renee said angrily. "Shoot him and let's get out of
here."

"What are they?" Bill asked Mike.

"Don't be a fool," the contessa said. "Can't you see what he's--" "Walk
him over here, Vince," Bill ordered, ignoring her. "Slowly.

Lucy? Please don't move." His gun moved from one to the other, settling
on Mike as he added, "Cover her, Vince. Okay, Rick, let's see if what
you have is worth your life."

"Not my life. Lucy's."

"Lucy's dying of moribund!, remember? There's nothing I can do for her.
But you still stand a chance.

If what you have is as valuable as you say."

Slowly Mike took his hand from his pocket, fingers curled, and extended
his fist toward Bill.

"Stop this nonsense," Renee fumed. "You cannot let him go and he knows
this. He's stalling, playing with you--"

"Ancient Mesopotamian cylinder seals," Mike said, uncurling his fingers.
"Museum quality."

"Jesus." Letting his pistol hand drop. Bill stretched his other hand
toward the tiny treasures. "I've never seen--" A shot rang out, and Bill
spun away, a small, neat crease in the shoulder padding of his jacket.

"I warned you," Renee said. "Now we do it my way."

But Vince was being paid by Bill, not Renee, and he fired across Lucy at
the contessa. As Lucy dove sideways, Renee fired back. The impact of the
two heavy bullets drove Vince's body backward across the floor where it
crashed, lifeless, against a stack of banana crates.

Bill had recovered from the shock of being shot at and was firing at
Renee. One of the slugs took her in the neck, and her blood spurted out
in a high arc.

Carl ran for cover, knocking the medical tray to the floor and
scattering equipment, as Lucy instinctively ran toward the dying woman.

"Get away!" Mike shouted urgently. "Get back."

Lucy hesitated, then stepped back quickly, horrified at what she'd
nearly done. Renee had been injected with moribundi. Her spurting blood
was deadly.

Misunderstanding Mike's warning to Lucy, Bill sprang forward and wrapped
an arm around her throat. "Don't move," he warned her.

"Carl, get the seals."

"The what?" Carl crouched fearfully beside the crate that held the tray
of vials.

"He means these," Mike said. "Here. Catch." He tossed them into the
darkness, well beyond Carl's rising figure, and dove at Miller, driving
him backward into a stack of crates, splitting them open. But Bill's arm
clamped more tightly around Lucy, dragging her with him, her body
shielding him from Mike's nailing fists as the over-ripe fruit cascaded
around them. The three figures grappled briefly before Bill managed to
raise his gun and smash it into the side of Mike's head.

Mike slid away unconscious, and Bill levered himself erect, his forearm
still around Lucy's throat, his gun hand firmly around her body. Her arm
throbbed with pain, and a thin stream of blood coursed down beneath her
jacket.

"Your boyfriend's out for the count," he said into her ear. A sickly
sweet smell of mashed banana clung to his clothing. On the floor at
their feet, Mike moaned but remained unconscious. "So glad I didn't have
to shoot him. We'll inject him now, before he comes to. Then it'll be
your turn. Go ahead, Carl."

"Don't do it," Lucy told the frightened scientist as he pulled his eyes
from the bloody scene and began gathering up the fallen vials and
syringes with trembling hands. "He shot Renee. He'll kill you, too.

He doesn't want any witnesses."

"Shut up," Miller told her. To Carl he said, "Don't listen to this
bullshit. The plan can't work without you."

"The hell it can't," said Lucy. "You've already made the viruses, Carl.
What else does he need from you?"

Miller tightened his arm against her throat, nearly choking her.

"You're a real pain in the butt, Lucy Nash. You're a snoop. You're a
liar." He paused.

"And you're not even very good in bed."

"What?" Lucy managed to gasp.

"Of course you weren't awake at the time, so perhaps it isn't a fair
assessment."

"What ... are you talking about?" She forced out the words.

"The other night, when you came to tell me about the mission and the
secret lab. So trusting of you. So stupid. The sedative in the cocoa
worked very well.

It's the same one we're using tonight." He reached his gun hand under
her jacket. "We had a wonderful time together," he told her, caressing
her breast with the pistol barrel. "Couldn't you tell? Didn't you have
some memory of it the next day?"

"You bastard," Lucy spat, remembering her unexplained pain. "You raped
me."

"And I enjoyed every minute of it."

She began struggling again, but he jabbed the gun hard into her ribs
causing her to grunt with pain. "If you weren't infected with
moribund!," he continued, "I'd suggest we do it again tonight.

Although, as I say, you didn't contribute very much to the festivities."
He glanced over at Carl. "Jesus, man, how long does it take to fill a
damn syringe?"

Carl's coloring, normally pallid, had paled to a ghostly white.

"Nearly ready .. . it's just--" He broke off as he carefully added
several cc's of pale pink liquid to the colorless fluid already in the
syringe, then offered the needle to Bill with shaking fingers, his eyes
sliding off to watch the blood pool beside Renee's body.

"Don't give it to me, you idiot," Bill exclaimed impatiently.

"Use it on him. What's wrong with you?"

"I, uh, didn't expect all ... this." Carl waved the long needle at the
bloody carnage. His breathing was fast and shallow, his eyes hot and
red-rimmed. "I don't feel very well." He leaned heavily against the
banana crates, the syringe drooping in his trembling fingers.

"You can faint later. Inject the bastard." But Carl didn't move.

"Okay, I'll do it." Gratefully, Carl extended the syringe again. "No,
put it down on the floor over there, next to him. Good." Bill hesitated.

"You'll have to take Lucy from me." He peered at Carl. "Can you do that?
Maybe we should sedate her first. Give it to me."

Carl went to the tray. "It's not here. Uh, when the tray went over .

.." He scanned the floor. "I don't know where it--" Bill eyed him
dangerously. "I'll fill another," he said quickly.

Behind them, Mike groaned and looked around blearily, then fell back.

"There's no time," Bill snapped. "We have to take Rick out now, while
he's still groggy." His eyes went to the outer door. Should he send Carl
to bring in one of the guards?

Mike moaned again, and his eyes flickered open.

Lucy, feeling Bill's attention wander, began twisting her body from side
to side in an effort to pull free, but he tightened his hold against her
neck, pulling her head back.

As he did so, he was abruptly aware of the risk he was taking by holding
her so close. Unlike Carl, he was unprotected by gloves or face shield.
Suddenly he wanted to be rid of her. "Pull yourself together," he
snapped at Carl, "and come help me."

Carl took several deep breaths. "I'm feeling better."

He reached a gloved hand up under his face shield and swiped at his damp
forehead. "I'm okay now.

Oh, shit."

"What now?" Bill asked impatiently.

"My glove's torn. I have to change it. I have extra gloves ..." He
fumbled on the tray, tipping it over and sending its contents cascading
onto the cement.

"Dammit, Carl," Bill exploded, wishing for Vince's help, cursing Renee
in his mind. "Just come and take Lucy from me. And for godsake, don't
let her get loose." Carefully he transferred the struggling woman into
Carl's strong arms, his gun at the ready.

Lucy was exhausted, nearly overwhelmed by fear, pain, and lack of sleep.
She tried desperately to maneuver her hand behind her, to reach the rear
waistband of her jeans beneath her jacket. No go. That's it, then, she
thought. It's all over.

But as she glanced up at Carl's scared but determined face, an idea came
to her. As she felt Miller's grip slacken and Carl's tighten around her,
she managed to wiggle a hand up under the front of her open jacket and
press it against the bullet wound, keeping her eye on Bill.

As soon as he turned his attention to Mike, she pulled her hand free and
shoved it under Carl's hood.

"Moribund! blood," she whispered smearing it on his cheek, feeling his
hold loosen as he pulled away from her in terror, hearing Carl shout as
she twisted free, feeling Carl's breath as she elbowed him hard in the
chest, then sprinted toward Mike and beyond, kicking the syringe away
into the darkness as she ran for cover.

"You stupid bastard!" Bill shouted.

"She's infected me. I'll die." Carl's voice was high and panicky.

"The skin's not broken," Miller told him firmly.

"You'll be okay."

"I have to decon. I have to wash my face."

From somewhere outside came a gunshot.

Both men started. "What the fuck was that?"

"I don't know. But I have to decon."

Bill's hand tightened on his pistol as he peered into the gloomy depths
of the warehouse. "Use the chemical sink on the way through, but do it
fast, understand? The launch is waiting. Tell them to take you to the
ship."

"What about ... all this? What about you?" Carl was shaking.

"Renee's traceable to the Mafia. Unless Tortoriello wants to go public
about his role in the drug running, she'll be chalked up to a gangland
dispute. Lucy'll be dead in hours; Rick, too, once I inject him."

Pocketing his gun, he bent over the fallen tray. "This the vial?"

"Yes."

"Okay, get going." Pulling on a pair of surgical gloves, he grabbed a
fresh syringe, inserted the needle tip, and drew up a small amount of
fluid. "Wait. Take the pathogens Lucy stole."

"Where are they?"

Syringe in hand. Bill looked around, spotting the handbag Vince had
brought from the taxi. He jerked his chin at it. "In there."

Carl retrieved the bag and began pawing through it.

"Just take it," Bill urged. "Go. Go!"

"But they're unwrapped," Carl breathed, drawing out a handful of vials.

"She didn't even-- Hey, these are antibiotics. Bill, they're
antibiotics!"

His face purpling with fury, Bill grabbed the vials from Carl, examined
them briefly, and hurled them at the ceiling. "Take the vials from the
tray," he ordered.

"They're enough to get us started. You can make more in the ship's lab.
Move."

He watched as Carl grabbed the vials and disappeared through a small
interior door. When he turned back, Mike was sitting up, swaying
slightly. The side of his head was caked with blood, and his eyes
struggled to focus. Drawing his gun again, Bill contemplated the younger
man. "It seems you still have something to deal with," he said.

"But you haven't," Mike said, his expression clearing as he looked
around. "Lucy's gone."

"Not far." He hesitated. "And now that I think about it, I have got
something. Lucy?" he called out into the darkness. "I haven't infected
Rick yet. Want to trade?"

"Don't answer," Mike shouted.

"Moribundi's a terrible way to die," Bill called.

"You'll find out for yourself, of course, but Rick doesn't have to.

Give me the vials you took from the lab, and he goes free."

"Don't believe him, Lucy. There's no way he can let me go."

"Not true. Neither of you matters to me anymore. Carl's gone, and he's
got enough virus to kill rather a lot of people. The plan goes ahead a
little earlier than scheduled, that's all. You'll talk about what you
know? Terrific. It'll help convince people I'm serious about doing what
I threaten to do." A pause. "Okay, Lucy. You leave me no choice.
Injection or bullet, Rick's going down."

"Wait." Lucy stepped out into the circle of light.

"You can have the viruses."

"No," Mike exclaimed.

"They're in the garage in my apartment building."

Mike groaned, but she ignored him. "They're hidden in the trunk of
Rick's car. The key ring's in my rear pocket. I'm going to reach for it.
Okay?"

"Go ahead," Bill said.

Mike had gone very quiet.

"And you promise you'll release him?" Bill nodded.

"All right." Lucy reached her right hand back toward her rear pocket and
tugged. "They're stuck," she said.

"I'm going to reach back with my other hand and free them."

"Let me do it."

He took a step toward her, but Lucy retreated into the shadows. "Don't
come near me," she warned. "If you want the keys, you'll do this my
way."

Bill stopped. "All right."

Lucy walked slowly forward, reaching her other hand back. The rear hem
of her jacket lifted. Suddenly her left hand came forward, key ring
jingling. "Here!" she shouted, flinging the keys hard at Bill's head,
her right hand coming forward in the instant he flinched and ducked,
firing her father's gun once, twice, calling to Mike to roll clear as
the blood spattered and she fired again.

The pounding of a battering ram against the outer door was loud in the
silence that followed.

Chapter Thirty.

Lucy stood weaving, the smoking weapon dangling from her hand, as she
stared down at Bill Miller's mangled body. Mike rose to his feet and
went to her, putting an arm around her shoulders and drawing her away
from the virus-laden blood. Lucy's legs began to buckle as he led her to
a crate near the wall. She collapsed onto it, leaning against him.

"Where'd the gun come from?" he asked softly.

"It was my dad's." She looked down at the pistol as if seeing it for the
first time. "I wasn't sure I'd be able to do it," she said softly.

"You think you know what you're capable of, but until you have to .

.

."

She trailed off.

"You've never fired it before? You're a helluva shot."

"I've shot at tin cans and bottles and stuff, sure.

That's not what I meant. I meant shooting at people, killing them.

.

.. Even in self-defense. I wasn't sure I could do it." She shivered.

"I'm a doctor."

"And you removed a cancer and saved the patient."

"The patient's not out of danger yet," Lucy replied.

"Not while Carl's still out there."

"How's your shoulder?"

"It hurts, but I don't think it's serious."

"You don't look well," Mike said, studying her.

"Your eyes are all red."

"I feel rotten. I've got a fever, I think." She suddenly drew away from
him, alarm in her face. "Better keep your distance."

"That's okay. It's the good virus, remember."

"I hope that's all it is," she replied, remembering her hand brushing
Carl's sweating cheek. Behind them, the hammering at the outer door
continued, but in her exhausted state, Lucy seemed almost unaware of it.
"No form of peruvia is 'good,' " she murmured.

"It's an inoculant now, but it could mutate again. We both need to
decon. Quarantine, too. And the warehouse has to be sealed immediately."
She cast a look back toward the bodies. "Can you get to Bill's phone?

Call Tom?"

"I suspect that won't be necessary," Mike replied as the steel door
crashed inward. He ran toward the figures in black coveralls, shouting,
"Stay away from the bodies!"

"Mike? That you?"

"For godsake, Tom, stop them. The blood's infected."

Tom barked an order, then turned back to Mike.

"Is Lucy with you?"

"Over there."

"I thought you guys were safe at the Nineteenth Precinct."

"We didn't make it that far. How'd you find us?"

"Truth to tell, we weren't looking for you. The lab surveillance team
thought they heard some shots, and sent a man around the corner to check
it out. They found Miller's car parked down the block, but no shooter.
No one put Miller's car together with this place; they just figured he
must have made the lab surveillance guys and abandoned the car. When I
heard about it, I sent a team to bring the car in, and one of the
cowboys outside"--he jerked his chin toward the loading dock--"took a
potshot at them.

That's when things came together." He paused.

"Smells like shit in here." He turned to stare at the bloody scene laid
out beneath the circle of cool light.

"What the hell happened?"

"Miller's dead, Renee depalma, too. That's Vince, over there; he's just
hired heat."

Tom shook his head. "How?"

"Renee did Vince, Miller did Renee, Lucy did Miller ... I missed some of
the bits in the middle."

Tom turned to stare at Lucy. "She shot him?" He went and gently took the
pistol from her hand. When she didn't respond, he bent down and studied
her face for a moment. "You did the right thing," he told her softly.
"You did what you had to do." His eyes widened as they went to her
bullet-ripped sleeve. "Were you hit?"

"Yes, but not badly," she replied. "Better not touch it. Did you get
Carl Anders?"

"No, he hasn't shown up at the lab yet. Our men are still--"

"He's here," she said. "He's upstairs."

"What? Up where?"

"Not sure," Lucy murmured. "The lab connects with the Star of Hope
Mission ... a hidden staircase in a wardrobe in the storage room.

Miller said something about taking us up to the lab, so I guess it
connects through here too, somehow. Carl went through there."

She pointed toward the interior door, now ajar.

Tom shouted instructions to one of the men, who led three others through
the door at a run.

"We need a decontamination team here, fast," Mike told Tom. "In RACAL
suits. We'll need a transport team, too, and hospital standby. And
portable decon."

"You've got it," Tom said, waving his men back against the wall. He
reached for his walkie-talkie.

"Unit One to HQ. Over."

The instrument crackled a reply, but Lucy leaned over and put a hand
over it. "I don't think you should report this over an open line," she
said quietly. "I can give you some numbers to call." Tom knelt down
beside her and pulled a pad and pencil from his coverall pocket.

"Hey, you hear something?" Mike turned toward the bodies, listening.

Tom gestured for quiet, and in the ensuing silence, the beeping of a
cellular phone sounded faintly.

"Miller's phone," Mike said. He started toward it.

"No." Lucy reached out to him. "Don't touch it."

Tom took a pair of plastic crime-scene gloves from his pocket. "These
help?"

"Yes." Mike pulled them on. Keeping well away from the gore, he
retrieved the phone, along with several alcohol swabs from Carl's tray.

He swabbed the instrument and said a silent prayer. "Yes?" he said
softly into the phone.

"Miller? Is that you? I can barely hear you."

"It's Carl," Mike whispered, cupping a hand over the phone. "Go ahead,"
he told Carl, hoping the heavy static he heard would disguise his voice.

"I'm on the launch. We're nearly at the ship. You want me to send it
back for you?"

"Tell him yes," Tom said softly.

"Yes, send the launch back here."

A brief silence. Then, "You're not Miller," Carl said accusingly.

"Who the hell is this?"

"This is the FBI," Tom said, taking the instrument from Mike's hand.

"Miller's dead. The lab's been sealed off. We know about the Star of
Hope Mission, too. It's all over, Anders. Give yourself up."

"You're lying." A pause. "Put Miller on."

"He's dead."

"Bullshit." Another pause. "Where are you?"

"Where are you, Carl?"

"Never mind. There's a warehouse around the corner from the lab.

You'll find a woman in there, Lucy Nash. She's dying of something called
peruvia moribund!."

"It's not true," Mike whispered to Tom, who waved at him to be quiet.

"There's no cure for moribund!," Carl continued.

"I should know; I created it. I have a vial of it with me, enough to
kill thousands of people. Put Miller on the phone or I'll release it."

Tom put a hand over the phone and looked questioningly at Lucy.

"He can't just release it into the air," she said. "It's only
transmittable through blood and fluids. Anyway, I switched the vials.

What he thinks is moribund! is really the inoculant. But for godsake,
don't tell him that."

"Miller's dead, and that's the truth," Tom said into the phone. "We know
what he was planning, and it won't work without him. Give yourself up.
You can't--"

"I can and I will," Carl said. "With or without Miller. We've come too
far. There's no going back."

A click and Carl was gone.

"We'll get him," Tom said, pulling out his own phone and dialing
furiously. "The Coast Guard, the Navy--"

"Tell them not to board," Lucy said quickly. "Not without RACAL suits.
It's not just the vials of virus. Carl's dying." Tom looked up. "He
injected himself with the deadly strain. He thought it was the
inoculant.

He gave it to Bill and Renee, too. Carl's dying of moribund!."

Tom tossed Miller's phone to Mike. "You two get on the horn, order up
whatever you need. I'll get after Carl." He wrinkled his nose. "What the
hell is that stink?"

"Rotting bananas," Mike said. "The place is filled with them." He looked
over at the blood-spattered fruit. "I'll never eat another banana as
long as I live."

Chapter Thirty-one.

Sunshine bounced off the plastic sheeting surrounding the hospital bed.
Beneath the thin coverlet, Lucy ate a last spoonful of Jello, sneezed
twice, and lay back against the pillows.

The door opened and Mike looked in. "Feel like visitors?" His words came
dimly through the heavy plastic. "Tom's with me."

"Sure," she said, beckoning them into the room.

Mike drew his chair up close to the bed. "How do you feel?"

"Rotten. But flu-rotten, not dying-ofsome-strangeincurable-disease
rotten. So even though you're free to wander the streets of the city
that never sleeps while I'm stuck in this damn tent for the next three
weeks, I guess I can't complain." She smiled at him.

No trace of virus had been found in his blood, and after careful
decontamination, during which all of his clothes had been removed and
burned, he'd been released to the outside world. Lucy, on the other
hand, having lost her clothing, too, had, not unexpectedly, been placed
in quarantine at New York General, where tests had confirmed that the
only peruvia in her blood was the mild b strain. Although she'd slept
through the first ten hours of her incarceration, she was already
heartily sick of the idea.

"How's the shoulder?"

"Not as bad as it felt. The bullet just nicked it. Did the hatbox pickup
go okay?"

"Yeah, the CDC was prompt and discreet," Mike replied. "I had a tough
time convincing them we'd actually taken the box through a seven-minute
decon shower, but when they realized I was serious, they seemed very
grateful."

"I'll bet." Lucy smiled.

"The ambulance threw them at first," Tom interjected.

"They thought there'd been an accident with the virus. Once they
realized--"

"What ambulance?"

Mike shot a look at Tom. "I was hoping to put off telling you until you
were feeling better," he told Lucy.

"Too late now. Spill it."

Mike sighed. "When we got to your building, an EMS crew was working on a
homeless man down the street. Someone reported him to the police this
morning, said he was lying drunk in a doorway. But the EMS guys said he
died sometime during the night.

They think he probably froze to death."

"Ray." It was a statement, not a question, and Mike nodded. "Do you
think he froze to death?" she asked.

"It's possible, Lucy. It was bitterly cold last night."

He squeezed her hand through the plastic sheeting.

"The decon team found the cylinder seals, by the way," he announced,
eager to change the subject. "I told Tom you might want to donate them
to a museum."

"Are they mine?"

"Technically, I think they are. You want to sell them?"

"I might," Lucy mused. "All that money could help a lot of people."

"You don't have to decide right away. Get well first."

Lucy nodded. "I notice you've both been avoiding the big issue. No word
from Carl yet?"

Tom shook his head. "How fast does the virus kill?

Could he be dead already?"

"Not dead, but certainly dying. You locate the ship?"

"We think so. A small Liberian-registered cargo vessel, owned by a
corporation of convenience. We traced it back to a guy named Kiamos."

He checked his watch. "There's a cordon of Coast Guard cutters in a wide
circle around it, and a Navy decon vessel with USAMRIID personnel
aboard. If they try and make a run for the mainland or the open sea,
we'll get 'em. But I'll feel a lot more comfortable once this thing is
over."

"Your media blackout's been surprisingly successful," Mike said. "I
haven't heard a thing on the news."

"We've been lucky so far. It won't last."

A nurse entered, carrying a bag of saline solution which she hung on the
IV stand. "Are either of you Mr. Wrightson?" she asked.

"I am," Tom said, rising.

"They're transferring a call in here for you from the nurse's station.

Please don't talk too long," she added as she left. "Dr. Nash needs her
rest."

"What am I, twelve? Talk as long as you like, Tom ."

The phone rang and Tom snatched up the receiver.

"This is Wrightson. What's happened?" He listened for a moment, his eyes
growing solemn. "I see. All of them? Good God. Yes, I'm heading back to
the office now." He replaced the receiver.

"Well, we've got him," he said. "They tried to run.

They were stopped and boarded." He reached for his coat. "Anders had
injected everyone on board with what he thought was the inoculant.

They're finished." He sighed. "Most of them are ordinary crewmen.

They haven't the faintest idea of what's happening or why."

"And your men have the vials of virus?" Lucy asked, her eyes sad.

Tom nodded. "They found a Level Four lab aboard, small but functional.

Carl had already begun to replicate the virus there."

"Miller was planning to move his operation offshore," Mike said, "once
they'd announced their intentions to the world. It's all on that disk I
gave you."

"What will you do now?" Lucy asked Tom.

"We'll hold the ship at sea until all the men have died. Several
USAMRIID personnel have offered to give them what comfort they can--" He
broke off.

"Go on. It's worse not knowing."

"The bodies will be removed, the entire ship sealed and decontaminated,
the lab dismantled, the viruses destroyed."

"And the media?"

"Told as little as possible."

"This Kiamos," Mike said. "You'll get him, of course. And the others."

"You think so?" Tom raised a cynical eyebrow.

"That disk of yours contained no names, remember.

Kiamos will claim he lent his boat to Miller for use as a hospital ship,
or a research station; how was he to know what Miller really intended?
Of course, any financial support he gave Miller would have been paid to
the IMA. For charitable causes."

"But we know better."

"Yes. And by looking through the IMA's financial records, we'll know
whom to keep an eye on." He shrugged. "But that's about all we can do."

"What will happen to the IMA?" Lucy wondered aloud. "Miller and Anders
aside, it performed a valuable service."

"I suppose if new financial backing can be found .. ." Mike began.

"And suppose others should come along, offering to support the noble
work of the IMA?" Tom said grimly, pulling on his coat. "Can you afford
to trust such an offer, after this? How can you be sure their intentions
are pure?" He strode to the door and opened it. "You're thinking what a
cynical old bastard I am. And, of course, you're right. But ... do you
truly believe we can ever really know what's in another's heart?"

"Rather a bleak view of the world," Mike said as the door closed behind
Tom.

"Comes with the territory, I expect. Still, he has a point."

Mike shrugged. "About the IMA, perhaps. But I know what's in your heart.
And you know what's in mine."

Lucy smiled at him. "Oh, I know what's in your heart, all right. It's
your identity I'm still not sure of.

Are you really this Mike Rossetti character? I mean, you're not about to
step into a phone booth and emerge as Clark Kent, are you? You won't
suddenly decide you'd rather be Dan Quayle or Harry Reasoner or Mel
Gibson? Although Mel Gibson would be rather-- Hey, you're not allowed
under here. What if the nurse comes back? She'll quarantine you in here
with me. Which would certainly be nicer than being in here on my own.
Okay, whoever you are, you talked me into it. Just watch that shoulder,
fella."