Peter had been watching from the shadows, worrying as soon as Marty began talking in exclamation points. Thin and wiry, he slid across the RV’s living room to lean over the computer monitor.
He said quietly, “Jon thinks there was something in the deleted report you recovered from the Prince Leopold Institute that Sophia considered important. That’s why the report was erased and the page of her comments cut from her logbook.” He looked into Marty’s shining green eyes. “What we need is anything that could tie into that report.”
Marty bounced up and down on his chair. “Not a problem! I’ll print out the entire file.” Electric energy seemed to shoot from his pores, and a self-satisfied smile wreathed his face. “Got it! Got it!”
Peter clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Better take your Mideral pill, too. Sorry. Know you don’t like ’em. Buck up, though. What we’re about to do is a task for the boring part of both of our brains. At least you can medicate yours.”
__________
With Sophia’s file in front of them, Peter read the Prince Leopold report aloud as Marty checked it against the personnel file. Marty moved line by line, his mind working methodically, while Peter read and reread the report. The Mideral was a wonder drug, and its quick-acting effect had slowed Marty’s speech and enabled him to sit quietly through the onerous task. He was acting like a courtly but gloomy gentleman.
As dawn approached, they had still found no link between Sophia’s past activities and current contacts at USAMRIID.
“Right,” Peter acknowledged. “Take a step back. Where did she do her postdoc work?”
Marty peered at the file. “University of California.”
“Which one?”
If Marty had been off his meds, he would have thrown up his hands in despair at how poorly Peter was informed. Instead he simply gave a shake of his head. “Berkeley, of course.”
“Ah, yes. And they say we Brits are snobs. Can you crack that august institution, or do we have to drive all the way back to the West Coast?”
Marty raised his brows at Peter’s idea of levity. He said in a measured, irritatingly slow voice, “Tell me, Peter, do we dislike each other as much when I’m off my meds?”
“Yes, my boy. We certainly do.”
With dignity, Marty inclined his head. “Thought so.” He sat at his computer, and ten minutes later Sophia’s transcript at Berkeley was in his hands.
Peter read aloud the Prince Leopold report again.
Marty checked the transcript. “No names that match. No fieldwork. Her entire program was in human genetics, not virology.” He sat back, and the transcript slid off his knee. “It’s hopeless.”
“Nonsense. As we Brits say, `We’ve not yet begun to fight.’ ”
Marty frowned. “That was John Paul Jones against the British.”
“Ah, but technically he was still a Brit when he said it.”
Marty gave a gimlet smile. “You’re still trying to hold on to the colonies?”
“Always did hate to give up a good investment. Very well, where did she do her doctoral studies?”
“Princeton.”
“Crack away.”
But the transcript of her doctoral studies showed her work to be far too extensive and lacking in detail to help. Her dissertation had no connection to viruses. Instead, she had researched the gene cluster that held the genetic mutation responsible for the missing tails of Manx cats.
Marty pointed out, “She took extensive field trips. That could be useful.”
“Agreed. Is a graduate adviser listed?”
“Dr. Benjamin Liu. Emeritus. He still teaches an occasional course, and he lives in Princeton.”
“Right,” Peter said. “I’ll crank up this heap. We’re off.”
__________
8:14 A.M.
Princeton, New Jersey
Sunrise illuminated the autumn colors of trees and bushes as Peter and Marty drove north. They traded off driving to sleep and crossed the Delaware Memorial Bridge south of Wilmington and sped up the Jersey Turnpike past the bustling metropolises of Philadelphia and Trenton. When they entered Princeton, the sun was bright, and the tree leaves were vibrant shades of red, gold, and tangerine.
It was an old town, Princeton, a scene of battle during the Revolutionary War when the British headquartered here. It still retained the tree-lined streets and grassy meadows, the old houses and classic university buildings, and the elegant and peaceful atmosphere in which high learning and tranquil lifestyles were most comfortably pursued. The famed university and the historic town were symbionts, neither succeeding fully without the other.
Dr. Benjamin Liu lived on a side street heavily planted in maple trees whose leaves burned flame red, as if on fire. The sedate, three-story frame structure was shingled in that eastern seaboard wood color that is neither dark brown nor dark gray but somewhere in between, earned by years of bravely facing the elements.
Dr. Liu himself had a well-weathered face. Far from the cliché of an inscrutable Chinese courtier, he was tall and muscular, with the eyes and white drooping mustache of an ascetic Mandarin but the jutting chin, full cheeks, and ruddy complexion of a New England whaling captain. He was a fine blend of Chinese and Caucasian, and the walls of his study helped to show why. Hanging there were two portraits that appeared to be his parents. One was a tall, athletic, blond woman wearing a yachting cap and carrying a fishing rod, while the other showed a distinguished gentleman in the traditional robes of a Mandarin Chinese elder seated on the bow of a ship. On one side of the photographs hung mounted game fish, while on the other were displayed historic Chinese court badges of rank.
Dr. Liu had just finished his breakfast. He waved them to seats in the study. “So how can I help you? You spoke on the phone of Sophia Russell. I remember her well. A great student. Not to mention a hell of a looker. She was the only time I was tempted to dare the fates with a teacher-student affair.” He sank into a wing-back chair. “How is she, anyway?”
On his meds, Marty began one of his slow, methodical answers. “Well, Sophia Russell is—”
Peter gave in to impatience. “Right, Marty. My job here.” He focused on the retired professor. “She’s dead, Doctor Liu. Sorry to be so blunt, but we’re hoping you can help. She died from the new virus.”
“Dead?” Dr. Liu was shocked. “When? I mean, is it possible?” He looked from Peter to Marty and back to Peter. He shook his head, slowly at first, then vigorously. “But she was so… young.” He hesitated as if seeing Sophia’s vitality. Then the rest of what Peter had said penetrated. “The new virus? It’s a global disaster! I have grandchildren, and I’m frightened to death. It could wipe out half the species. What are we doing to stop it? Can anyone tell me?”
Peter’s voice was reassuring. “Everyone’s working around the clock, Professor. It’s what Dr. Russell was researching.”
“Researching? So that’s how she got the virus?”
“Perhaps. It’s one of the things we’re trying to ascertain.”
The professor’s face was set in grim lines. “I can’t imagine I can be of any help, but I’ll try. Tell me what you want.”
Peter handed the one-page report to the professor. “This is from the Prince Leopold Institute of Tropical Diseases. Please read it and tell us if anything in there ties in with Dr. Russell’s studies at Princeton. Classes, field trips, research, friends, any bloody thing that occurs to you.”
Professor Liu nodded. He took his time reading. He stopped often to think and remember. An old clock on the mantel of the study ticked loudly. He read the report again. And again.
Finally, he shook his head. “I see nothing here that strikes me as relating to Sophia’s work or studies. She concentrated on genetics and, as far as I know, never took a field trip to anywhere in South America. Giscours didn’t study at Princeton, and Sophia didn’t study in Europe. I see no way they could’ve met.” He pursed his lips and glanced down at the report again. He raised his head. “But you know, I do recall… yes, a trip. In her undergraduate years. Not viruses, though.” He hesitated. “Damn, it’s only something she mentioned in passing at an informal gathering.” He sighed. “I’m not going to be able to tell you more than that.”
Marty had been listening closely. Even when he was on his medication and his brilliant mind was tethered, he still tested smarter than ninety-eight percent of the human populace. Which increased his annoyance with Peter Howell. So just to prove he could, he forced himself to ask quickly: “Where was she an undergraduate?”
The professor looked at him. “Syracuse. But she wasn’t studying biology then. So I don’t see how that trip could possibly relate to Giscours and his report.”
Peter opened his mouth to speak, but Marty jumped in: “Something had better.” He felt a sudden chill and looked at Peter.