In her daily logbook, she described her reaction to the Prince Leopold report, and she summarized what she recalled of the strange virus and her two conversations with Victor Tremont, since they might be relevant now. She also wrote some speculations about how a Peruvian virus could have been transmitted beyond the jungle.
As she was writing, she heard the door to her office open. Who—? Hope filled her.
Excited, she spun her chair around. “Jon? Darling. Where the hell—”
In the instant before her head exploded in violent pain and color, she had a glimpse of four men surrounding her. None was Jon. Then darkness.
__________
Nadal al-Hassan, disguised from head to foot in lab scrubs, methodically searched the female scientist’s office desk. He read each document, report, notebook, and memo. He studied every file. The task was offensive, even though he was protected by surgical gloves. He knew such modern blasphemies occurred in his own country as well as many . other Islamic, even Arab, nations, but he made no secret of his distaste. Allowing females to study and work beside men was not only heresy, it defiled both the dignity of the men and the chastity of the women. Touching what the woman had touched defiled him.
But the search was necessary, so he performed it meticulously, leaving nothing unexamined. He found the two damaging documents almost at once. One was the only report open on her desk— from the Prince Leopold Institute, by a Dr. Rene Giscours. The other was her handwritten phone record of outgoing calls that the USAMRIID director apparently required all personnel to complete each month.
Then he found her logbook musings about the Belgian report. Fortunately, it filled an entire page, beginning at the top and ending at the bottom. From a small leather case, he took out a pen-shaped, razorsharp draftsman’s blade. With care and delicacy, he excised the page. He examined the cut to be certain it was invisible, then hid the page in his scrubs. After that he found nothing more of importance.
His three men, dressed in identical scrubs, were completing their search of the rows of file cabinets.
One said, “Got a new memo in a file ’bout Peru.”
Another said, “Couple of old files talked about stuff down in South America.”
The third just shook his head.
“You read every document?” al-Hassan snapped. “Every file? Looked in every drawer?”
“Like you told us.”
“Under everything? Behind anything that moved?”
“Hey, we ain’t stupid.”
Al-Hassan had strong doubts about that. He found most Westerners lazy and incompetent. But from the mess in the office, he decided they had been thorough this time.
“Very well. You will now erase any indications of a search. Everything is to be as it was.”
While they grumbled and returned to work, al-Hassan slipped on a second, thicker pair of white rubber gloves. He took a small refrigerated metal container from a leather case, released a pressure seal, and extracted a glass vial. He carefully removed a hypodermic syringe from the case, filled it from the sealed vial, and injected Sophia in the vein of her left ankle.
At the prick of the needle, she stirred and moaned.
The three men heard. They turned to look, and their faces went ashen.
“Complete your tasks,” al-Hassan said harshly.
The men dropped their gazes. As they finished straightening the office, al-Hassan put the used syringe inside a plastic container, sealed it, and returned it to the leather case. His men indicated they were finished. Al-Hassan inspected the office once more. Satisfied, he ordered them to leave. He gave one final glance at the now-motionless Sophia and saw the sweat that had beaded up on her face. When she groaned, he smiled and followed them out.
___________________
CHAPTER
SEVEN
___________________
4:14 A.M.
Thurmont, Maryland
A light wind rustled through bushes and trees, carrying the stink of apples rotting on the ground. Jon Smith’s three-story, saltbox-style house was set back into the looming shoulder of Catoctin Mountain. The place was dark, not even a porch light to welcome him home, which made him think Sophia must still be at the lab. But he had to be sure.
He was a block away, crouched behind an SUV, as he studied his house, yard, and street. He saw telltale signs: The trunk of the old apple tree was too thick where someone stood behind it, watching. Farther up the block, almost hidden by two tall oak trees, the hood of a black Mercedes protruded from a driveway of neighbors Smith knew owned only a 2000 Buick Le Sabre, which they always parked in the garage.
Considering how quickly he had driven home from Georgetown on the almost-deserted highway and roads, there was no way the pair waiting here could have arrived first. Which meant this was a second surveillance team, and that alarmed him.
The sentry in front could see the driveway and garage doors. There was probably a man in back, too, to cover the rear of the house and garage. But Smith could see no reason to waste a man on the side of the garage away from the house.
He felt the familiar hollow of fear in his stomach every soldier knows, but also the hot rush of adrenaline. He slipped down an alley and sprinted behind the houses until past his street. Then he recrossed out of sight of the hunters. Beginning to sweat again, he worked through a stand of sycamores to the near side of his garage and slithered the last, five yards on his elbows and belly.
He listened. There was no sound behind the house. He raised up to peer inside the garage.
And sighed with relief. It was empty. Sophia’s old green Dodge was gone. She must have been at Fort Detrick all this time. If so, she had never received his message, and that explained the lack of a porch light. He breathed deeply, instantly feeling better.
Retracing his path, he hurried back to his Triumph and drove to a phone booth a quarter mile away. He could not wait to hear her voice. He dialed her work number. After four rings, the machine picked up. “I’m out of my office or in the lab. Please leave a message. I’ll return your call as soon as possible. Thank you.”
The bright sound of her strong voice gave him a sharp pang and another feeling he could not explain. Loneliness?
He dialed again. The voice that answered was all business, which was reassuring, particularly considering the circumstances: “United States Army, Fort Detrick. Security.”
“This is Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, USAMRIID.”
“Base ID, Colonel?”
He gave his number.
There was a pause. “Thank you, Colonel. How can we help you?”
“Connect me to the desk guard at USAMRIID.”
Clicks, beeps, and a new voice. “USAMRIID. Security. Grasso.”
“Grasso, Jon Smith. Listen—”
“Hey, Colonel, you’re back. Everything okay? Doc Russell’s been askin’—”
“I’m fine, Grasso. It’s Dr. Russell I’m calling about. She’s not answering her phone. You know where she is?”
“She’s on the night list I got when I came on, and I ain’t seen her leave.”
“What time did you come on?”
“Midnight. She’s probably in the lab and not hearing nothing.”
Smith glanced at his watch: 4:42 A.M.
“Could you go up and check?”
“Sure, Colonel. Call you back.”
Smith recited the phone number. Every second seemed like a minute, and every minute it was harder to breathe. The cool night seemed stifling. The phone booth suffocated him.
When the phone rang at last, he almost jumped. “Yes?”
“Not there, Colonel. Office and lab are both closed up.”
“Any sign of trouble?”
“Nope. Everything’s packed away and covered up.” Grasso sounded a little defensive. “Damned if I know how I missed her. I guess she could’ve gone out one of the other exits. You could check with the gate guard.”
“Thanks, Grasso. You want to transfer me?”
“Hold on, Doc.”
A different and very sleepy voice spoke: “Fort Detrick. Gate. Schroeder.” “This is Lt. Col. Jonathan Smith, USAMRIID. Did Dr. Sophia Russell leave the base tonight, Schroeder?”
“Don’t know, Colonel. Don’t know Dr. Russell. Try the guy at USAMRIID.”
Smith swore under his breath. The civilian security guards were always changing, and they worked longer shifts than MPs. It was not unknown for them to doze in the gate kiosk. The barrier would stop any cars trying to enter, and if it did not, the noise would certainly wake them up. But no barrier stopped cars leaving.
He hung up. It sounded as if she could have been too tired to drive all the way to Thurmont. Which meant she was likely at her old condo in Frederick, which she had just sold but had not yet fully moved out of. He could call the condo, but that would tell him nothing. When they worked around the clock, they always turned off their phone’s ringer to get a few hours sleep.