64

Atlanta

Dicken walked toward his old office in the subbasement of Building 1 at 1600 Clifton Road. As he walked, he fingered his way through a vinyl packet of new material—special federal-grade security pass, fresh-printed instructions on new security procedures, talking points for arranged interviews later in the week.

He could not believe it had come to this. National Guard troops patrolled the perimeter and the grounds, and while there had not yet been any violent incidents at the CDC, phone threats arrived at the main switchboard as often as ten times a day.

He opened his office door and stood for a moment in the small room, savoring the cool and quiet. He wished he could be in Lagos or Tegucigalpa. He was much more at home working under rugged conditions in remote places; even the Republic of Georgia had been a bit too civilized, and therefore a bit too dangerous, for his tastes.

He much preferred viruses to out-of-control humans.

Dicken dropped the packet on his desk. For a moment, he could not remember why he was here. He had come to pick up something for Augustine. Then he recalled: the Northside Hospital autopsy reports on first-stage pregnancies. Augustine was working on a plan so top-secret Dicken knew nothing about it, but all the files pertaining to HERV and SHEVA in the building were being copied for his benefit.

He found the reports, then stood pensively, remembering the conversation with Jane Salter months ago, about the screaming of the monkeys in these old subbasement rooms.

He tapped his toe on the floor to the rhythm of an old and morbid child’s song and murmured, “The bugs go in and the bugs go out, the monkeys will scream and the apes will shout...”

No doubt about it anymore. Christopher Dicken was a team player, hoping just to survive with his wits and his emotions in a few well-ordered pieces.

He picked up the vinyl packet and the folders and left the office.