39

Bethesda

MARCH

”It was a very short trip,” Dicken said as he dropped a paper report and a diskette on Augustine’s desk. “The WHO folks in Africa told me they were handling things their way, thank you. They said cooperation on past investigations could not be assumed here. They only have one hundred and fifty confirmed cases in all of Africa, so they say, and they don’t see any reason for panic. At least they were kind enough to give me some tissue samples. I shipped them out of Cape Town.”

“We got them,” Augustine said. “Odd. If we believe their figures, Africa’s being hit much more lightly than Asia or Europe or North America.” He looked troubled—not angry, but sad. Dicken had never seen Augustine look so down before. “Where are we going with this, Christopher?”

“The vaccine, right?” Christopher asked.

“I mean you, me, the Taskforce. We’re going to have over a million infected women by the end of May in North America alone. The national security advisor has called in sociologists to tell them how the public’s going to react. The pressure is increasing every week. I’ve just come from a meeting with the surgeon general and the vice president. Just the veep, Christopher. The president considers the Taskforce a liability. Kaye Lang’s little scandal was completely unexpected. The only joy I got out of that was watching Marge Cross chug around this room like a derailed freight train. We’re getting pasted in the press—’Incompetent Bungling in an Age of Miracles.’That’s the general tone.”

“Not surprising,” Dicken said, and sat in the chair across from the desk.

“You know Lang better than I do, Christopher. How could she have let this happen?”

“I was under the impression that NIH was getting the patent reversed. Some technicality, inability to exploit a natural resource.”

“Yes—but in the meanwhile, this son of a bitch Bragg is making us look like donkeys. Was Lang so stupid as to sign every paper her husband thrust in front of her?”

“She signed?”

“She signed,” Augustine said. “Plain as day. Handing over control of any discovery based on primordial human endogenous retrovirus to Saul Madsen and any partners.”

“Partners not specified?”

“Not specified.”

“Then she’s not really culpable, is she?” Dicken said.

“I don’t enjoy working with fools. She crossed me quite literally with Americol, and now she’s brought ridicule down on the Taskforce. Any wonder the president won’t meet with me?”

“It’s temporary.” Dicken bit at a fingernail but stopped when Augustine looked up.

“Cross says we go ahead with the trials and let Bragg sue us. I agree. But for the time being, I’m burying our relationship with Lang.”

“She could still be useful.”

“Then let her be anonymously useful.”

“Are you saying I should stay away from her?”

“No,” Augustine said. “Keep everything hunky-dory between you. Make her feel wanted and in the loop. I don’t want her going to the press—unless it’s to complain about Cross’s treatment. Now...for the next bit of unpleasantness.”

Augustine reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a glossy black-and-white photo. “I hate this, Christopher, but I see why it’s being done.”

“What?” Dicken felt like a little boy about to be scolded.

“Shawbeck asked the FBI to keep tabs on our key people.”

Dicken leaned forward. He had long since developed a civil servant’s instinct for keeping his reactions in check. “Why, Mark?”

“Because there’s talk about declaring a national emergency and invoking martial law. No decision has been made yet...it may be months away...But under the circumstances, we all need to be pure as the driven snow. We’re angels of healing, Christopher. The public is relying on us. No flaws allowed.”

Augustine handed him the photo. It showed him standing in front of Jessie’s Cougar in Washington, D.C. “It would have been very embarrassing if you had been recognized.”

Dicken’s face flushed with both guilt and anger. “I went there once, months ago,” he said. “I stayed fifteen minutes and left.”

“You went into a back room with a girl,” Augustine said.

“She wore a surgical mask and treated me like a leper!” Dicken said, showing more heat than he had intended. The instinct was wearing very thin. “I didn’t even want to touch her!”

“I hate this shit as much as anybody, Christopher,” Augustine said stonily, “but it’s just the beginning. We’re all of us facing pretty intense public scrutiny.”

“So I’m under probation and review, Mark? The FBI is going to ask for my little black book?”

Augustine did not feel the need to answer this.

Dicken stood and threw the photograph down on the desk. “What next? Shall I tell you the name of everyone I’m dating, and what we do together?”

“Yes,” Augustine said softly.

Dicken stopped in midtirade and felt his anger fly out of him like a loose burp. The implications were so broad and frightening that he suddenly felt nothing more than cold anxiety.

“The vaccine won’t be through clinical trials for at least four months, even on emergency fast track. Shawbeck and the VP are taking a new policy to the White House this evening. We’re recommending quarantine. It’s a good bet we’re going to need to invoke some sort of martial law to enforce it.”

Dicken sat down again. “Unbelievable,” he said.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about this,” Augustine said. His face was gray with strain.

“I don’t have that kind of imagination,” Dicken said bitterly.

Augustine swiveled to look out the window. “Springtime soon. Young men’s fancy and all that. A really good time to announce segregation of the sexes. All women of child-bearing age, all men. OMB will have a ball figuring out how much this will slow down the GNP.”

They sat in silence for a long moment.

“Why did you lead with Kaye Lang?” Dicken asked.

“Because I know what to do with her,” Augustine said. “This other stuff...Don’t quote me, Christopher. I see the necessity, but I don’t know how in hell we can survive it, politically.” He pulled another print from the folder and held it up for Dicken to see. It showed a man and a woman on a porch in front of an old brownstone, illuminated by a single overhead light. They were kissing. Dicken could not see the man’s face, but he dressed like Augustine and had the same physique.

“Just so you don’t feel bad. She’s married to a freshman congressman,” Augustine said. “We’re finished. Time for all of us to grow up.”

Dicken stood outside the Taskforce center in Building 51, feeling a little ill. Martial law. Segregation of the sexes. He hunched his shoulders and walked to the parking lot, avoiding the cracks in the sidewalk.

In his car, he found a message on the cell phone. He dialed in and retrieved it. An unfamiliar voice tried to overcome a real antipathy toward leaving messages, and after a few false starts, suggested they had mutual acquaintances—two or three removed—and possibly some mutual interests.

“My name is Mitch Rafelson. I’m in Seattle now but I hope to fly East soon and meet with some people. If you’re interested...in historical incidents of SHEVA, ancient examples, please get in touch with me.”

Dicken closed his eyes and shook his head. Unbelievable. It seemed everyone knew about his crazy hypothesis. He took down the phone number on a small notepad, then stared at it quizzically. The man’s name sounded familiar. He marked it through once with his pen.

He rolled down the window and took a deep breath of air. The day was warming and the clouds over Bethesda were clearing. Winter would be over soon.

Against his better judgment, against any judgment worthy of the name, he punched in Kaye Lang’s number. She was not at home.

“I hope you’re good at dancing with the big girls,” Dicken murmured to himself, and started the car. “Cross is a very big girl indeed.”