Kielburger’s florid face sneered. “I’d say it’s very much like him. He’s a goddamn pirate looking for the next chest of gold, and he always will be. Take my word for it, he’s run into an `interesting’ medical problem or treatment or both and missed his flight. Face it, Russell, he’s a goddamn loose cannon, and after you’re married you’re going to have to deal with that. I don’t envy you.”
Sophia compressed her lips, fighting a strong desire to tell the general exactly what she thought of him.
He stared back, idly undressing her in his mind. He had always liked blondes. It was sexy the way she pulled back her pale hair in a ponytail. He wondered whether she was blond everywhere.
When she made no answer, he went on in a more conciliatory voice. “Don’t sweat it, Dr. Russell. He’ll turn up soon. I hope so, anyway, because we need everyone we can get on this virus. I suppose you have nothing to report?”
Sophia shook her head. “To be frank, I’m about out of ideas, and so is the rest of the staff. The other labs are struggling, too. It’s early, but all we’re getting so far from everyone is negatives and guesses.”
Kielburger tapped his desk in frustration. He was a general, so he felt obligated to do something. “You say this is a totally unique virus of a type never seen before?”
“There’s always a first one to be discovered.”
Kielburger groaned. This could ruin any chance he had to break out of the medical ghetto and move into line command.
Sophia was studying him. “May I make a suggestion, General?”
“Why not?” Kielburger said bitterly.,
“The three victims we have are widely separated geographically. Plus two are about the same age, while one is much younger. Two are male; one is female. One in active service, one a veteran, and one civilian. How did they get the virus? What was the source? It has to have been centered somewhere. The odds are astronomical against three outbreaks within twenty-four hours of the same unknown virus thousands of miles apart.”
As usual, the general did not get it. “What’s your point?”
“Unless we begin to see other victims centered in one of the three locations, we have to find the connection among the three we do have. We need to start investigating their lives. For instance, maybe they were all in the same hotel room in Milwaukee six months ago. Maybe that’s when all three contracted it.” She paused. “At the same time, we should comb the medical records in the three areas for signs of previous infections that could have produced antibodies.”
At least it was a positive step, and it would make Kielburger look as if he was acting decisively. “I’ll instruct the staff to begin at once. I want you and Colonel Smith to fly out to California first thing in the morning to talk to the people who knew Major Anderson. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, General.”
“Good. Let me know when Smith decides to return to work. I’m going to chew his ass!”
So mad she could not even enjoy the spectacle of Kielburger acting out his Hollywood conception of a tough, no-nonsense American hero, Sophia stalked out of his office.
In the corridor, she looked up at the wall clock: 1:56 A.M. Fresh worry overwhelmed her. Had something happened to Jon? Where was he?
__________
2:05 A.M.
Washington, D.C.
As he drove his small Triumph through the night city, Jon Smith, mulled what Bill Griffin had told him, trying to comprehend even the unspoken hints.
Bill said he had left the FBI. Voluntarily or by request?
Either way, Bill was connected somehow to a new virus sent from some armed forces unit for USAMRIID to study. Probably for the lab identify and suggest the best method of treatment. To Smith, it sounded routine— one of the vital tasks Fort Detrick had been established to handle.
Still, Bill Griffin claimed Smith was in danger.
His trained Doberman said more about Griffin’s state of mind than any words he had uttered. Obviously, Griffin believed there was peril, and not just for Jon but for himself.
After their meeting, Jon had made his way carefully along the park’s dark paths, stopping often to melt into the trees to make certain he was not being followed. When at last he had reached his restored 1968 Triumph, he had looked carefully around before getting in the car, then had driven south out of the park, heading away from Maryland and home, the opposite of what a pursuer would expect. Despite the late hour, traffic had been moderate. Not until the depths of night, sometime around 4:00 A.M., would the bustling metropolis finally grow weary and its main arteries empty.
At first he had thought a car was pacing him. So he had turned corners, sped up and slowed down, and wound his way to Dupont Circle and Foggy Bottom and then north again. It had taken him more than an hour of driving, but now he felt certain no one was following him.
Still warily watching, he turned south again, this time on Wisconsin Avenue. Traffic was very light here, and street lamps cast wide yellow pools of illumination against the dark night. He sighed wearily. God, he wanted to see Sophia. Maybe it was safe at last to go to her. He would cross the Potomac and take the George Washington Parkway to 495 north— heading to Maryland. To Sophia. Just thinking about her made him smile. The longer he was gone, the more he missed her. He could not wait to hold her in his arms. He was nearing the river and driving tiredly between Georgetown’s long rows of trendy boutiques, elegant bookstores, fashionable restaurants, bars, and clubs when a mammoth truck, its engine rumbling, pulled up in the left lane next to his small car.
It was a six-wheel delivery truck, the kind that dotted every beltway and interstate around every city from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific coast. At first Smith wondered what a truck was doing here since businesses and restaurants would not open for deliveries for another three or four hours. Interestingly, neither the cab nor the white cargo section displayed a company name, address, logo, slogan, phone number, or anything to mark what it was delivering or for whom.
Thinking longingly of Sophia, Smith did not dwell on the truck’s unusual anonymity. Still, the events of the evening had activated the finely honed sense of danger he had developed over the years of practicing medicine and commanding at the front lines where violence could erupt minute to minute, where death was close and real, where disease waited to strike from every hut and bush. Or maybe some movement, action, or sound inside the truck had caught his attention.
Whatever it was, a split second before the behemoth vehicle suddenly pulled ahead and moved to cut off Smith’s sports car, Smith knew it was going to do it.
Adrenaline jolted him. His throat tightened. Instantly he assessed the situation. As the truck turned into him, he yanked his steering wheel to the right. His car skidded and bounced up over the curb and onto the deserted sidewalk. He had not been going all that fast— just thirty miles an hour— but driving on a sidewalk, not even a wide one like this, at thirty miles an hour was insanity.
As the truck roared alongside, he fought to control his car. With explosive crashes, he sideswiped a mailbox and litter bin and smashed a table off its pedestal. He careened past the closed, silent doors of shops, bars, and clubs. Darkened windows flashed past like blind eyes winking at him. Sweating, he glanced left. The huge truck continued to parallel him out on the street, waiting for a chance to bore in again and squash him against the facade of a building. He said a silent prayer of thanks that the sidewalk was empty of people.
Dodging trash cans, he saw the truck’s passenger-side window suddenly lower. A gun barrel thrust out, aimed directly at him. For an instant he was terrified. Trapped on the sidewalk, the truck blocking the avenue from him, he could neither hide nor evade. And he was unarmed. Whatever their plans had been earlier, now they were counting on shooting him dead.
Smith tapped his brake and swerved so the thug in the truck cab would have to contend with a shifting target as he tried to find his aim.
Sweat beaded on Smith’s brow. Then for an instant he felt a sense of hope. Ahead lay an intersection. His hands were white on the steering wheel as he pushed the Triumph toward it.
Just as he accelerated, the gun in the truck fired. The noise was explosive, but the bullet was too late. It blasted across the Triumph’s tail and shattered a store window. As glass burst into the air, Smith inhaled sharply. That had been too damn close.