The SONG of SHIVA (34 page)

“They found him slumped over the steering wheel of his car – pulled over to the side of the road. Must have happened on his way to the office this morning. A heart attack or something ― but that’s only a preliminary diagnosis. The CDC ordered a full autopsy ― but we won’t have results for a week ― at least.”

Outside the coach window, the scenery swept by in bucolic splendor. The sky did not turn dark nor change its gorgeous azure cast even slightly. Lyköan looked at her and grimaced. She waved his concerned expression away with a hand and a look of sheer agony.

“That’s just terrible. Please, I don’t mean to sound callous, I really don’t, this is a genuine tragedy, but I can’t do anything from here except convey my sincere sympathies.” The appropriate words escaped her. “Unfortunately, right now I’m involved in my own life-threatening emergency. I had hoped Marty would be able to help me out ― thought he might have already started. But now I need your help. Do you mind?”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the old man’s special project ― whatever he’s been pulling his hair out over the last couple of days ― would it? The headache that coincided almost perfectly with the announcement of your leave of absence? I’m not the only one who suspected a connection.”

How much had Kosoy passed along ― to Megan or anyone else? How much did Nora care to risk in finding out?

“Very perceptive, Megan. Did Marty bring anyone else in on the project? Did he tell you anything about it? Anything at all?”

“Very little. I know he was working long hours here at the office ― a lot of mainframe time ― but I don’t think any of our people were involved. He did meet with someone from HHS yesterday though. The guy came all the way down from Washington I think. I can get the name for you if it would help. But I have no idea what they discussed.”

“Yes, yes, that would be great. But to your knowledge was he working with anyone else ― maybe outside consultants?”

“I don’t think so. Nothing I’m aware of.”             

“Okay. What was the name at HHS?”

“Hold on,” Megan said. “I’m not at my desk. I’ll have to bring up his schedule at my workstation.”

Dead silence. Nora waited. After what felt like an inordinate amount of time, Megan retuned to the line.

“Someone named Fremont. Felix Fremont.”

“You mean the president’s brother?
That
Felix Fremont?”

Lyköan heard the name and his expression shifted from concern to alarm.

“Is he? I have no idea,” Megan answered. “But it’s not a very common name, is it? All it says on the org chart is ‘HHS Citizen Liaison to the Executive Branch’ ― the CLEB.”

“I think that’s him.”
Washington-speak,
Nora thought.
That never clever Beltway vernacular. The new vulgate.
Her former life had been filled with such acronyms.

“Apparently he’s some sort of direct ombudsman between the White House and Health’s front line trenches,” Megan said, paraphrasing from something she was reading. “His name only comes up in Marty’s personal address book though, so maybe he was a personal friend. Aside from that there’s only the name and a meeting time on the calendar. After hours. Late last night.”

Nora experienced all the past tense references with a shudder. “Do you have a number?” Maybe Marty had made the only appropriate contact his short future had permitted.

“Let me see,” Megan said, her voice fading away.

Like a bizarre parody of some Greek tragedy, Nora’s little universe was crumbling, eroded by immense forces beyond her understanding and control. And just like the bloodthirsty world of Aeschylus and Sophocles, every death had occurred cleanly off stage, kept aseptically out of sight, its gruesome events always announced by messengers and thereby kept at a distance. The Greeks understood. Staged mortality, even reality itself, pale before the grim graphics of our imagination.

Maybe this plunge into the final, ultimate oblivion had actually begun with Jerry’s death, more than a decade before. Not so much as a DNA sample had ever returned from Ground Zero. No microscopic trace to prove that that lovely and loving man had ever even existed. The messenger had been a flurry of impersonal news stories, the sickening unending replay of video, the focus of a nation for months, a change in the national psyche forever. That had been her first aching encounter with real mortality, shocking and so difficult to bear, the sort of pain that never entirely goes away. She still had not completely gotten over it ― doubted she ever would. But unlike some of these more recent deaths, she had never once considered blaming herself. Why would she? She had simply learned to deal with it and moved on.

But that had changed dramatically with Jack Cummings, whose promising life had ended off stage as well, announced by a ringtone and then Marty’s muted voice eight miles above the polar icecap, played out to the monotonous accompaniment of whining jet engines. She might one day atone for that negligence, but she could never entirely escape responsibility.

Zhòngní’s murder had been announced only yesterday morning, through the craggy voice of that Cockney thug’s ugly, matter-of-fact remark. Another good and innocent man suffering for her actions.

And now Marty. While she had yet to consider its implications, the news had arrived with another out-of-sight voice communication, but nonetheless shaking the living daylights out of her.

The true terror, however, was the alarming regularity and rapidly shortening intervals with which these murderous announcements were arriving.

“No home number. There’s a cell though. Looks like a DC area code.” McBride said, shaking Nora from her macabre introspection. Providing the number, Megan interjected into the self-absorbing silence that followed, “Have you heard the news? Is that why you’re calling? The life-threatening emergency you mentioned?”

“What news?” Nora asked.

“The Vietnam influenza outbreak. Confirmed cases of human-to-human transmission. We’re like chickens with our heads cut off around here – trying to pull together a tactical team the WHO wants in Ho Chi Minh City for an emergency meeting the day after tomorrow. Oh, I’m sorry, I mean tomorrow. It’s already past midnight.”

Egan had been right. “Who’s taken over for Marty?” So much for dream-time.

“The WHO’s sending their own man. Somebody from the Thai research team ― named ― let’s see,” there was a brief pause, “Tardieu, Dr. Jean-George Tardieu. He’s arriving today. He’ll be acting as interim coordinator. Just coming in to select a diversity of disciplines ― assure the appropriate CDC presence is represented at that meeting and another related conference being held in Stockholm.”

Nora didn’t know what to say. Ask Megan not to mention she had called? Try to swear her to secrecy? Say nothing at all and hope Tardieu didn’t inquire?

“How long will he be there?”

“Only long enough to approve or change our recommendations and leave with the crew. Just the one day.”

Take the leap of faith, sister
, Nora thought. “Will you do me a favor? It’s more important than anything I’ve ever asked since coming aboard at the CDC, Megan. I’m drop dead serious.”
Shit!
“I’m sorry Megan, a truly poor choice of words.”

“I understand. None of us ― nobody who knew Marty ― is doing well with this. How can I help you?”

“Please, don’t mention our conversation to anyone. It’s desperately important, but I can’t tell you why right now. I know we’ve never been close, I’m sort of asking in Marty’s name ― you know? Hoping to carry on the work he was doing. It’s imperative we keep this secret, just as he apparently intended. Can you promise me?”

“Sure, Nora. For Marty. I’ll trust you for that.”

Egan was signaling ‘cut’ with a finger across his throat, indicating she had already been on the phone too long. Nora decided to comply.

“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Good luck with this new emergency. I’ll keep everyone in my prayers.”

“Same here, Nora.”

“Bye.”

“Bye.” 

Nora looked up, staring ahead without a word, stayed like that for a long time. Lyköan was aware something had gone terribly wrong, but decided not to ask for an immediate explanation. Nora was obviously shaken. She would divulge the details when she was ready. He put his arm around her shoulders.

* * *

Long minutes had elapsed since the phone call. They were now only minutes from Manchester’s Piccadilly Station. Nora felt drained. Everything had come out in one uninterrupted rush. The other side of the conversation, her fears about the future, the seemingly hopeless dead end that had arrived at their doorstep with the unexpected news.

“Kosoy’s death was too damned convenient...” Lyköan said, watching the rowhouses wash by as the city approached.

“...for Pandavas,” Nora completed what he had left unspoken.

“...to be anything but murder,” he added with dark finality. “And that’s what we’re going to consider it ― until we learn otherwise.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We follow our single lead. We’ve got a half hour between trains in Manchester. Time enough to give the commander-in-chief’s black sheep brother a call. Collect. There’ll be CCTV cameras again. Best we exit separately. I’ll go first and meet you outside ― in front of the station. Keep smiling. A lot of our safety from this point forward is going to depend on our ability to play convincing roles. I know ― you don’t feel up to it. But it’s as important as anything else we do until we move father into the hinterlands.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

                                      Nō Þæ yðe byð

tō befēonne   –  fremme sē Þe wille –

ac gesēcan sceal    sāwl-berendra

nýde genýdde,    niÞða bearna,

grund-būendra    gearwe stōwe,

Þǽr his līc-homa,   leger-bedde fæst,

swefeÞ æftersymle.             

              Death is not easy

to escape –  for any of us –

and for those with souls    the earth brethren

we children of men,   we must make our way,

to a destination    already ordained,

where we leave this body,  after feasting,

to sleep eternally.

Beowulf

Nora’s first thought had been to contact someone else at CDC and start over, transmit the Innovac data files and let whoever she selected, present the info to the appropriate higher authorities. But ultimately, she decided against it. Hadn’t that strategy already failed once? If she had only been able to ask Marty why had he had run to Felix Fremont, of all people, instead of straight to the NSA, CIA or FBI. Why contact the president’s black sheep brother? Fremont was a minor functionary at HHS. It was common knowledge he had only landed the position at the president’s urging, the White House hoping to keep the poor soul out of trouble. The epitome of the ne’er-do-well sibling, Fremont had long been a Washington Beltway laughingstock and the target of tabloid lunacy. Washington hadn’t enjoyed such an extended belly laugh at the expense of a presidential family member since Billy Carter. Had Marty known something she didn’t?

Nora had never even met the man. His job with HHS was so insignificant that their paths had never crossed. And here she was on the phone with him less than two hours after learning the tragic news about her boss, trying to uncover some answers and not do or say anything stupid in the process. Time, after all, really was running out. She had decided to follow Marty’s lead, trusting he had known what he was doing. Of course, Marty was dead.

A buffeting wind was blowing fiercely down the crowded rush-hour street, driving dust into their faces and urban debris along the sidewalk cement. Lyköan had attempted to place himself strategically between her and this grit-filled Manchester gale, but it was doing little good. A storm front had moved in off the Irish Sea. The first raindrops were probably only a few minutes away. Outside Arndale Centre, kitty-corner from the Barclays Bank at Market and Pall Mall, safely out of camera range, they had found a stand of open-air pay phones and were huddled together in front of one of them.

“Hurry it up, sweetheart,” Lyköan barked above the wind and traffic, pointing to his watch.

Nora pushed her head farther under the stall’s ridiculously inadequate steel-grey graphite cowling, trying her best to avoid the dust, carry on a long-distance conversation, and respond to Lyköan’s anxious urging with a withering roll of her eyes ― all at once.

“We’ll think about it,” she suggested.              

“I’m afraid neither of us can afford that luxury, Doctor. It’s imperative we meet with you ― both of you ― no later than tomorrow.” Fremont’s nasally, laconic voice sounded strained. As for first impressions, he was making a damned poor one.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t feel like entertaining visitors at the moment,” Nora chirped sarcastically. Fremont sounded too damned eager. “You have no idea what it’s been like ― what we’ve been through since we downloaded those data. And now the one person who knew anything about the contents is dead ― less than a day after meeting with you – and as far as I know,
only
you. If you were in our shoes, how would you feel?”

“Suspicious. But you have to understand ― we’re just as shocked by Doctor Kosoy’s death as you are. And while I can’t deny it looks suspicious ―
really
suspicious ― there’s no evidence of foul play. None whatsoever. We’ve investigated every conceivable angle and turned up nothing. The contents of those data files, however ― that’s an entirely different matter.”

“Tell me about it. So that finally got someone’s attention, did it?”

Lyköan spun a finger rapidly in front of his chin. “C’mon, wrap it up. We gotta roll.”

“To put it mildly,” Fremont answered. “That’s why we’re so insistent we meet with you. Anywhere. Any time of day or night. You say the word and we’re there. I can understand ― it’s difficult to trust anyone right now ― including me, but—”

“
Especially
you,” Nora corrected.

“Okay, then tell me what you want from us? You called me, remember?
Why? Hoping Kosoy had started the ball rolling, right? Tell me what we need to do to gain your trust. Anything ― we’ll do it. We’re willing to bend over backwards ― comply with any conditions you want to impose to guarantee your safety. Anything, Doctor. I’m speaking with the full authority of the State Department here. This is a national security matter and gravely important to us.”

The remark conjured up frightening images. “You mean important enough to die – or kill for, don’t you,” she stated coldly.

“Yes,” Fremont admitted. “And with or without your assistance, we’re going to act on this information. Soon. We have to.”

“That doesn’t reassure me,” Nora sighed.

“Christ, let me have that damned thing,” Egan swore, tearing the receiver from her hand and stepping under the cowling. Cheek to cheek with Nora now, he roared into the handset, “This is Lyköan, Fremont. The L-9 Genome to your buddies listening in. Here’s the deal. You do what we say and maybe we get somewhere. You decide not to follow just one ― and I mean
any
one ― of our instructions and you’re on your own. We must have some leverage here – or you wouldn’t be so eager to cut a deal.”

Recognizing the tone, Fremont came straight to the point. “Then here it is in a nutshell, Mr. Lyköan. Langley’s convinced of the data’s authenticity ― and the seriousness of the threat. We’re offering you and Doctor Carmichael protection – in exchange for information.”

“Your protection didn’t help Kosoy much, did it?” Lyköan spat back, looking at his watch and then up at the threatening sky.

“We weren’t protecting Doctor Kosoy ― had no idea he was in any danger. We’re still not convinced his death was anything more than the stress-induced vascular accident it appears to be. Whatever the cause though, that’s unfortunate history now. And while it’s made our job more difficult, it hasn’t affected the urgency of our mission. So, here’s the bargain. You decide if it works for you. We need someone who’s seen the inside of Innovac’s underground operation. From what Doctor Carmichael has told me, you need help extricating yourselves from the messy little corner you’ve painted yourselves into. Indications in the Shiva data coupled with certain recent world events suggest time is working against us both and—”

“—and you don’t know the half of it, Felix,” Lyköan interrupted, hoping to find if this man could be rattled and which button needed to be pressed to make it happen. “Since we’re on our way to becoming such great chums, you don’t mind me calling you Felix, do you buddy?”

“You can call me anything you like ― so long as you agree to help us.”

“And who is ‘us’?”

“Aside from Langley and State, only the British Home Secretary—”

“That was a mistake. Probably one of plenty you’ve already made. Innocently or not. Why’d you get the Limey spooks involved anyway?”

“We’re obligated by treaty, Mr. Lyköan. Before instigating any covert action on British soil, we’re pledged to consult with ― not simply inform ― British Intelligence.”

“So the fact that Innovac has a mole inside Brit Intel doesn’t trouble you in the least.”

“Let me explain something, Egan. You don’t mind me calling you Egan now that we’ve dispensed with the formalities, do you?” Lyköan experienced a momentary shiver of
déjà vu
. He shrugged it off.

Hard-nosed negotiating could be a two-way street. “After 9/11,” he began, “America found her dependable friends could be counted on one hand. For good or ill, John Bull was and still is one of them. So my hands are tied. We can’t risk threatening that special relationship. You can understa—”

“No I can’t,” Lyköan interrupted. “And I don’t need to. Not another word to MI-6, MI-5, any of them. You hear me?”

“No can do, Mr. Lyköan. I’m sorry, but that part of our arrangement is nonnegotiable. Look, if we wanted to screw with you ― if we had no intention of negotiating honestly and in earnest ― we’d simply agree to all your demands just to get our hands on you. And renege on any inconvenient detail as soon as you had delivered the information we needed. Under the circumstances ― in your present predicament ― how would you ever find out? I’ll answer that one. You wouldn’t. At least not until it was too late. This way you can see from the get-go that we’re shooting straight. In any honest negotiation ― by definition ―
both
sides should be willing to compromise. The way I see it, the next move is yours.”

Lyköan finally had heard something he could respect. Mutual respect is the first step towards resolving any dispute. There were other ways to find out if Felix Fremont could be trusted.

* * *

A stiff breeze was blowing chill and rough out of the barren Scottish hills. Sitting atop sod-covered Hadrian’s Wall at Steel Rigg promontory, heels tapping the cut stone’s lichen-surfaced southern face, Egan and Nora found themselves huddled together again. Massive Whin Sill, the rugged dolerite ridge that crosses the whole of England from Newcastle-on-Tyne to the Irish Sea and serves as the foundation for much of the wall’s nearly one hundred twenty kilometer course, stretched majestically away into the indigo haze at both eastern and western horizons. Down the gentle southern slope of the ridge that broke almost perpendicular at their backs, Lyköan surveyed the eastern distance through a powerful pair of Zhumell compact field glasses.

“Nothing yet,” he said, lowering the binoculars.

There was a pronounced chill in the August air and the black metal glasses felt uncomfortably cold in his hands. Laying them in his lap, he stuffed his hands into his armpits, and raising his head, surveyed the sky.

Nothing.
It was a good sign
.

In the shadow of Whin Sill to the east, Crag Lough’s dark waters rippled. Overhead, clouds raced south towards a smoky horizon, their underlying shadows gliding over the contours of the rolling countryside. Lyköan opened the thermos of leek and carrot soup, took a mouthful and offered Nora the container. She shook her head, preferring to keep her hands warm inside her jacket pockets. Lyköan gave her a have-it-your-way shrug.

“Here comes something,” she said, nodding towards a moving speck cresting a rise in the ribbon of macadam to the southeast, a mere glint beneath the rising sun. Lyköan trained the binoculars on the spot. A late model rental ― shiny beige and coming fast. It turned south at the Vindolanda exit. As the sun flashed through the car, Lyköan could see the driver was alone.

“This looks promising,” he said.

Half a klick south, the car made another left and drove to the end of the historic site’s narrow gravel road. Part of the National Trust, the excavation wouldn’t open for sightseers until ten. At this hour, the parking lot was deserted. Turning into the lot, the car came to a stop. The driver’s door opened and a man emerged. Lyköan tapped the temple piece of the double-bud, heard a crisp ring, and watched through the binoculars as the distant visitor lifted a hand to his ear.

“Hello. This is Fremont.”

“Did you enjoy the drive from Hexham, Felix?”

“It was fine, Lyköan.” The man sounded tired ― in no mood for banter. Good.

“Nice to see you’ve stuck to our script. Pay close attention now – I’m only going to give you one chance to get it right.”

“I’m listening,” Fremont acknowledged flatly.

“Hope you brought decent shoes. It’s going to be a long pull ― all of it uphill.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Okay. Leave your car. Right there in the lot’s fine. Walk back up the Stanegate ― that’s the road you came in on. At the second intersection there’ll be a Roman mile marker ― a weathered marble column about two feet high ― in the farmer’s field off to your left. Turn right at the marker and head uphill to Twice Brewed ― the National Trust Visitor Centre and bus stop along B-Sixty-Three-Eighteen. There’ll be further instructions across the road, stuck behind the brown sign for the Roman Army Museum.”

“That’s it?” Fremont asked.

“For now. We’ll be watching every step so keep to the script. Leave your phone in the car. I’m warning you ― no electronics ― not even a goddamned calculator. Got that? Okay. Better get started.”

Lyköan touched the temple key with a finger and cut the connection.

“Now what?” Nora asked.

“Now we watch ― and wait.”

They had hiked the ten klicks from Haltwhistle to Steel Rigg, almost all if it on the well-trodden path that shadowed Hadrian’s Wall, starting before dawn and reaching this point overlooking the distant Vindolanda ruins an hour before Fremont had been instructed to arrive. Near the stile steps of a tattered fence that intersected the wall not far away, they were perched on the wall under an enormous solitary oak bursting with full summer leaf. As they waited, Lyköan warily watched and listened. In the background a marvelous tinkling music was playing, like elegant high-pitched chimes, the product of the stiff breeze blowing through the thick foliage overhead. There was something strangely familiar about the tune. Somewhere deep within the melodious rattling leaves he imagined he heard whispering.