In his mind, he heard her gasping voice “…lab …someone …hit …”
The tortured words had meant nothing to him in the horror of the moment, but now they reverberated in his mind. Had someone entered her lab and attacked her the way they had attacked him?
Galvanized, he read again through her notes, memos, and reports for any clue, any hint of what had really happened.
And saw the number in her careful printing at the top of the next-to-last page of her logbook. Her logbook detailed each day’s work on the unknown virus. The entry number was PRL-53-99.
He understood the notation. “PRL” referred to the Prince Leopold stitute in Belgium. There was nothing special about that, simply her way to identify a report from some other researcher she had used in her work. The number referred to a specific experiment or line of reasoning or a chronology. What was important about this reference and number was that she always— always— wrote them at the end of her report.
At the end.
This notation was at the top of a page— at the beginning of a commentary concerning the problem of three victims separated widely by geography, circumstances, age, gender, and experience dying from the same virus at the same time, and no one else in the surrounding areas even contracting it.
The commentary mentioned no other reports, so the log number was in the wrong place.
He examined the two last pages carefully, pushing apart the sheets so he could study the gutter where the paper was sealed into the book’s spine. His magnifying glass revealed nothing.
He thought a moment and then carried the open logbook to his large dissecting microscope. He positioned the book’s exposed gutter under the viewing lens and peered into the binocular eyepiece. He slid the spine under the viewer.
He inhaled sharply when he saw it— a cut almost as straight and delicate as a laser scalpel. But although very good, it was not good enough to hide the truth from the powerful microscope. A knife-edge showed, faintly jagged.
A page had been cut out.
__________
Brig. Gen. Calvin Kielburger stood in the open doorway to Jon Smith’s office. His hands clasped behind his back, legs spread apart, beefy face set firmly in a severe expression, he looked like Patton on a tank in the Ardennes inspiring the Fourth Armored.
“I ordered you to go home, Colonel Smith. You’re no good to anyone out on your feet. We need a full, clear-thinking staff on this effort. Especially without Dr. Russell.”
Smith did not look up. “Someone cut a page from her logbook.”
“Go home, Colonel.”
Now Smith raised his head. “Didn’t you hear me? There’s a page missing from the last work she did. Why?”
“She probably removed it because she didn’t want it.”
“Have you forgotten everything you know about science since you got that star? No one destroys a research note. I can tell you what was cut out was connected to some report she had read from the Prince Leopold Institute in Belgium. I’ve found no copy of such a report in her papers.”
“It’s probably in the computer data bank.”
“That’s where I’m going to look next.”
“You’ll have to do it later. First I want you to get some rest, and then I need you to go to California in Dr. Russell’s place. You’ve got to talk to Major Anderson’s family, friends, anyone and everyone who knew him.”
“No, dammit! Send someone else.” He wanted to tell Kielburger about the attacks on him in Washington. That might go a long way to making the general believe that he had to keep trying to find out how Sophia had contracted the virus. But Kielburger would want to know what he had been doing in Washington in the first place when he was supposed to be back at Detrick, which would force him to reveal his clandestine meeting with Bill Griffin. He could not expose an old friend until he knew more, which meant he had to convince the general to let him go on. “Something’s wrong about Sophia’s death, I know it. I’m going to find out what.”
The general bristled. “Not on the army’s time, you’re not. We’ve got a far bigger problem than the death of one staff member, Colonel, no matter who she was.”
Smith reared up from his seat like a stallion attacked by a rattlesnake. “Then I’m out of the army!”
For a moment Kielburger glared, his thick fists clenched at his sides. His face was beet red, and he was ready to tell Smith to go ahead and quit. He had had enough of his insubordination.
Then he reconsidered. It would look bad on his record— an officer unable to command loyalty in his troops. This was not the time to deal with Smith’s arrogance and insubordination.
He forced his face to relax. “All right, I suppose I don’t blame you. Continue working on Dr. Russell’s case. I’ll send someone else to California.”
__________
2:02 P.M.
Bethesda, Maryland
Even though she had rushed, it took Lily Lowenstein the entire morning to do what the nameless man had ordered. Now she was finishing a celebratory lunch at her favorite restaurant in downtown Bethesda. On the other side of the window, the city’s tall buildings, reminding her again of a mini-Dallas, reflected the bright October sunlight as she sipped her second daiquiri.
Surprisingly, tapping into WHO’s worldwide computerized medical network had turned out to be the simplest of her tasks. Nobody had thought it necessary to put stringent security on a scientific and humanitarian information network. So it had been child’s play to erase all trace of a series of reports from WHO records concerning the victims and survivors of two minor viral outbreaks in the cities of Baghdad and Basra.
The Iraqi computer system was five years out of date, so going in to remove the originals of the same reports at the source was almost as easy. Oddly, Lily had found most of the original information from Iraq had already been erased by the Saddam Hussein regime. Not wanting to reveal any weakness or need, no doubt.
Clearing the single Belgian report from all electronic records of her own FRMC master computer, from USAMRIID and CDC’s databases, and from all the other databases worldwide had been more time consuming. But the hardest task proved to be erasing the item from the telephone log at Fort Detrick. She had been forced to call in favors from high-level phone company contacts who owed her.
Curious, she had attempted to comprehend the reason behind the blackmailer’s demands, but there seemed to be no common ground among the items she deleted except that most dealt with a virus. There had been hundreds of other research reports flying back and forth over the electronic circuits among a dozen Level Four research institutions worldwide, and her blackmailer had shown no interest in those.
Whatever he had wanted, her part was successfully completed. She had not been discovered, had left no trace, and would soon be free of her financial problems for good. She would never get in so deep again, she promised herself. With fifty thousand dollars in cash, she could go to Vegas or Atlantic City with enough to recoup everything she had lost. With a carefree smile, she quickly decided she would begin with a thousand on the Capitals to win tonight.
She almost laughed aloud as she left the restaurant and turned the corner toward the bar where her favorite bookmaker had his private booth. She felt a fiery surge that told her she could not lose. Not now. Not anymore.
Even when she heard the screams behind her, the screech and rumble of rubber and metal, and turned to see the big black SUV careening along the sidewalk directly at her, she had a wide smile on her face. The smile was still there when the SUV struck her and swerved back onto the street, leaving her dead on the sidewalk.
__________
3:16 P.M.
Fort Detrick, Maryland
Smith pushed away from the computer screen. There were five reports from the Prince Leopold Institute, but none had arrived yesterday or early today, and none reported anything but more failure to classify he unknown virus.
There had to be a report with new information in it— at least one fact important enough for Sophia to be inspired in some new line of investigation she had chronicled as a full-page note last night. But he had searched Detrick’s database, CDC’s database, and tied into the army’s supercomputer to search every other Level Four lab in the world, including the Prince Leopold itself.
There was nothing.
Frustrated, he stared at the uncooperative screen. Either Sophia had made a mistake, put the wrong code on her designation, and the report had never existed, or—
Or it had been erased from every database in the world, including its source.
That was difficult to believe. Not impossible to do, but hard to believe someone would go to such trouble over a virus when it was in everyone’s best interests to investigate. Smith shook his head, trying to dismiss the idea that there had been anything critical on that missing page, but he could not. The page had been cut out.