Until the true focal center of the disease was discovered, it remained an alien virus, something almost from another planet, deadly and mysterious. Perfect.
Patient Zero, Benedict Mkusa was dead, his body incinerated by gasoline, and the virus dead with him. Moudi had a small blood sample, but that wasn’t really good
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enough. Sister Jean Baptiste was something else, however. Moudi thought about it for a moment, then lifted the phone to call the Iranian embassy in Kinshasa. There was work to be done, and more work to prepare. His hand hesitated, the receiver halfway from the desk to his ear. What if God did listen to her prayers? He might, Moudi thought, He just might. She was a woman of great virtue who spent as much of her day in prayer as any Believer in his home city of Qom, whose faith in her God was firm, and who had devoted her life to service of those in need. Those were three of Islam’s Five Pillars, to which he could add a fourth –the Christian Lent wasn’t so terribly different from the Islamic Ramadan. These were dangerous thoughts, but if Allah heard her prayers, then what he intended to do was not written, and would not happen, and if her prayers were not heard . . . ? Moudi cradled the phone between his ear and shoulder and made the call.
“MR. PRESIDENT, WE can’t ignore it anymore.”
“Yeah, I know, Arnie.”
It came down to a technical issue, oddly enough. The bodies had to be identified positively, because a person wasn’t dead until there was a piece of paper that said so, and until that person was declared dead, if that person had been a senator or congressperson, then his or her post wasn’t vacant, and no new person could be selected for it, and Congress was an empty shell. The certificates would be going out today, and within an hour, governors of “the several states” would be calling Ryan for advice or to advise what they would be doing unbidden. At least one governor would today resign his post and be appointed to the United States Senate by his succeeding lieutenant governor in an elegant, if obvious, political payoff, or so the rumors said.
THE VOLUME OF information was stunning, even to someone familiar with the sources. It went back over fourteen years. The timing could scarcely have been better, however, since that was about the time the major
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newspapers and magazines had gone to electronic media, which was easily cross-loaded to the World Wide Web, and for which the media empires could charge a modest fee for material which otherwise would have been stored in their own musty basements or at most sold to college libraries for practically nothing. The WWW was still a fairly new and untested source of income, but the media had seized it by the throat, since now for the first time news was less volatile than it had been in the past. It was now a ready source for its own reporters, for students, for those with individual curiosity, and for those whose curiosity was more strictly professional. Best of all, the huge number of people doing a keyword search would make it impossible for anyone to check all the inquiries.
He was careful anyway–rather, his people were. The inquiries being made on the Web were all happening in Europe, mainly in London, through brand-new Internet-access accounts which would last no longer than the time required to download the data, or which came from academic accounts to which numerous people had access. Keywords RYAN JOHN PATRICK, RYAN JACK, RYAN CAROLINE, RYAN CATHY, RYAN CHILDREN, RYAN FAMILY, and a multitude of others were inputted, and literally thousands of “hits” had resulted. Many were spurious because “Ryan” was not that uncommon a name, but the vetting process was not all that difficult.
The first really interesting clips came when Ryan had been thirty-one and had first come into the public spotlight in London. Even the photos were there, and though they took time to download, they were worth waiting for. Especially the first. That one showed a young man sitting on a street, covered with blood. Well, wasn’t that inspirational? The subject of the photograph actually looked quite dead in it, but he knew that wounded people often appeared that way. Then had come another set of photos of a wrecked automobile and a small helicopter. In the intervening years the data on Ryan was surprisingly scarce, mainly squibs about his testifying before the American Congress behind closed doors. There were additional hits concerning the end of the Fowler presidency–immedi-
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ately after the initial confusion it had been reported that Ryan himself had prevented a nuclear-missile launch .. . and Ryan himself had hinted at it to Daryaei… but that story had never been officially confirmed, and Ryan himself had never discussed the matter with anyone. That was important. That said something about the man. But that could also be set aside.
His wife. There was ample press coverage on her, too, including in one article the number of her office at her hospital. A skilled surgeon. That was nice–a recent piece said that she’d continue that. Excellent. They knew where to look for her.
The children. The youngest–yes, the youngest used the same day-care center that the oldest had used. There was a photo of that, too. A feature article on Ryan’s first White House job had even identified the school the older ones attended. . . .
This was all quite amazing. He’d initiated the research effort in the knowledge that he’d get all or most of this information, but even so, here was in a single day more information than ten people in the field could have gathered–at considerable risk of exposure–in a week. The Americans were so foolish. They practically invited attack. They had no idea of secrecy or security. It was one thing for a leader to appear in public with his family from time to time–everyone did that. It was quite another to let everyone know things that nobody really needed to know.
The document package–it came to over 2,500 pages– would be collated and cross-referenced by his staff. There were no plans to take action on any of it. It was just data. But that could change.
“YOU KNOW. I think I like flying in,” Cathy Ryan observed to Roy Altman.
“Oh?”
“Less wear and tear on the nerves than driving myself. I don’t suppose that’ll last,” she added, moving into the food line.
“Probably not.” Altman was constantly looking
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around, but there were two other agents in the room, doing their best to look invisible and failing badly at it. Though Johns Hopkins was an institution with fully 2,400 physicians, it was still a professional village of sorts where nearly everyone knew nearly everyone else, and doctors didn’t carry guns. Altman was staying close, the better to learn his principal’s routine, and she didn’t seem to mind. He’d been in with her for the two morning procedures, and teacher that she was, Cathy had explained every step of the process in minute detail. This afternoon she’d be doing teaching rounds with a half dozen or so students. It was Altman’s first educational experience on the job–at least in something that had value in an area other than politics, a field he’d learned to detest. His next observation was that SURGEON ate like the proverbial bird. She got to the end of the line and paid for her lunch and Altman’s, over his brief protest.
“This is my turf, Roy.” She looked around, and spotted the man she wanted to lunch with, heading that way with Altman in tow. “Hey, Dave.”
Dean James and his guest stood up. “Hi, Cathy! Let me introduce a new faculty member, Pierre Alexandre. Alex, this is Cathy Ryan–”
“The same one who–”
“Please, I’m still a doctor, and–”
“You’re the one on the Lasker list, right?” Alexandre stopped her cold with that one. Cathy’s smile lit up the room.
“Yes.”
“Congratulations, Doctor.” He held out his hand. Cathy had to set her tray down to take it. Altman watched with eyes that tried to be neutral, but conveyed something else. “You must be with the Service.”
“Yes, sir. Roy Altman.”
“Excellent. A lady this lovely and this bright deserves proper protection,” Alexandre pronounced. “I just got out of the Army, Mr. Altman. I’ve seen you guys at Walter Reed. Back when President Fowler’s daughter came back from Brazil with a tropical bug, I managed the case.”
“Alex is working with Ralph Forster,” the dean explained as everyone sat down.
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“Infectious diseases,” Cathy told her bodyguard.
Alexandre nodded. “Just learning the ropes at the moment. But I have a parking pass, so I guess I really belong.”
“I hope you’re as good a teacher as Ralph is.”
“A great doc,” Alexandre agreed. Cathy decided she’d like the newbie. She next wondered about the accent and the southern manners. “Ralph flew down to Atlanta this morning.”