Dicken could smell eight different kinds of disaster in the winds.

He had not heard from Mitch Rafelson for several days, but suspected the anthropologist was already in town. They had not yet met, but the conspiracy was on. Kaye had agreed to join them for a talk this evening or tomorrow, depending on when Cross’s people would let her loose from a round of public relations interviews.

They would have to find a place away from prying eyes. Dicken suspected the best place would be right in the middle of everything, and to that end, he carried a second bag with a blank convention badge — “Guest of CDC” — and program book.

Kaye walked through the crowded suite, eyes darting nervously from face to face. She felt like a spy in a bad movie, trying to hide her true emotions, certainly her opinions — though she, herself, hardly knew what to think now. She had spent much of the afternoon in Marge Cross’s suite — rather, her entire floor — upstairs, meeting with men and women representing wholly owned subsidiaries, professors from UCSD, the mayor of San Diego.

Marge had taken her aside and promised even more impressive VIPs near the end of the conference. “Keep bright and shiny,” Cross had told her. “Don’t let the conference wear you down.”

Kaye felt like a doll on display. She did not like the sensation.

She took the elevator to the ground floor at five-thirty and boarded a charter bus to the opener. The event was being held at the San Diego Zoo, hosted by Americol.

As she stepped down from the bus in front of the zoo, she breathed in a scent of jasmine and the soil-rich wetness of evening sprinklers. The line at the entrance booth was busy; she queued up at a side gate and showed the guard her invitation.

Four women dressed in black carried signs and marched solemnly in front of the zoo entrance. Kaye saw them just before she was allowed in; one of their signs read OUR BODIES, OUR DESTINY: SAVE OUR CHILDREN.

Inside, the warm twilight felt magical. She had not had anything like a vacation in over a year, the last time with Saul. Everything since had been work and grief, sometimes both together.

A zoo guide took charge of a group of AmericoFs guests and gave them a brief tour. Kaye spent a few seconds watching the pink flamingos in their wading pool. She admired four centenarian sulfur-crested cockatoos, including the zoo’s current mascot, Ramesses, who regarded the departing crowds of day visitors with sleepy indifference. The guide then showed them to a side pavilion and court surrounded by palm trees.

A mediocre band played forties’ favorites under the pavilion as men and women carried food on paper plates and found tables.

Kaye stopped by a buffet table laden with fruit and vegetables, picked up a generous helping of cheese, cherry tomatoes, cauliflower, and pickled mushrooms, then ordered a glass of white wine from the no-host bar.

As she was taking money from her purse to pay for the wine, she spotted Christopher Dicken out of the corner of her eye. He had in tow a tall, rugged-looking man dressed in a denim jacket and faded gray jeans and carrying a scuffed leather satchel under his arm. Kaye took a deep breath, fumbled her change back into her purse, and turned in time to meet Dicken’s stealthy glance, hi return, she gave him a surreptitious tilt of her head.

Kaye could not help giggling as Dicken pulled aside a canvas and they strolled casually away from the closed court. The zoo was nearly empty. “I feel so sneaky,” she said. She still carried her glass of wine, but had managed to ditch the plate of vegetables. “What in the world do we think we’re doing?”

There was little conviction in Mitch’s smile. She found his eyes disconcerting — at once boyish and sad. Dicken, shorter and plumper, seemed more immediate and accessible, so Kaye focused on him. He carried a gift-shop bag and with a flourish pulled from it a folding map of the world’s largest zoo.

“We may be here to save the human race,” Dicken said. “Subterfuge is justified.”

“Damn,” Kaye said. “I’d hoped it was something more sensible. I wonder if anyone’s listening?”

Dicken swept his hand toward the low arches of the Spanish-style reptile house as if waving a magic wand. Only a few straggling tourists remained on the zoo grounds. “All clear,” he said.

“I’m serious, Christopher,” Kaye said.

“If the FBI is bugging Komodo dragons or men in Hawaiian shirts, then we’re goners. This is the best I can do.”

Loud shrieks from howler monkeys greeted the last of the daylight. Mitch led them down a concrete path through a tropical rain forest. Footlights illuminated the pathway and misters sprayed the air over their heads. The charm of the setting held them all for the moment, and no one was willing to break the spell.

To Kaye, Mitch seemed all legs and arms, the kind of man who did not fit indoors. His silence bothered her. He turned, regarded her with his steady green eyes. Kaye noticed his shoes: hiking boots, the thick-treaded soles well-worn.

She smiled awkwardly and Mitch returned her smile.

“I’m out of my league,” he said. “If anybody’s going to start our conversation, it should be you, Ms. Lang.”

“But you’re the man with the revelation,” Dicken said.

“How much time do we have?” Mitch asked.

“I’m free for the rest of the evening,” Kaye said. “Marge wants us in tow by eight tomorrow morning. There’s going to be an Americol breakfast.”

They descended an escalator into a canyon and paused by a cage occupied by two Scottish wildcats. The domestic-looking brindled felines paced back and forth, grumbling softly in the dusk.

“I’m the odd man out here,” Mitch said. “I know very little microbiology, barely enough to get along. I stumbled onto something wonderful, and it almost ruined my life. I’m disreputable, known to be eccentric, a two-time loser in the science game. If you were smart, you wouldn’t even be seen with me.”

“Remarkably candid,” Dicken said. He raised his hand. “Next. I’ve chased diseases over half the Earth. I have a feel for how they spread, what they do, how they work. From almost the very beginning, I suspected I was tracking something new. Up until just recently, I’ve tried to lead a double life, tried to believe two contradictory things at once, and I can’t do it anymore.”

Kaye finished her glass of wine with one gulp. “We sound like we’re working through a twelve-step program,” she said. “All right. My turn. I’m an insecure female research scientist who wants to be kept out of all the dirty little details, so I cling to anybody who’ll give me a place to work and protect me…and now it’s time to be independent and make my own decisions. Time to grow up.”

“Hallelujah,” Mitch said.

“Go, sister,” Dicken said.

She looked up, ready to be angry, but they were both smiling in just the right way, and for the first time in many months — since the last good time with Saul — she felt she was among friends.

Dicken reached into the shopping bag and produced a bottle of merlot. “Zoo security could bust us,” he said, “but this is the least of our sins. Some of what needs to be said may only be said if we’re properly drunk.”

“I gather you two have shared ideas already,” Mitch said to Kaye as Dicken poured the wine. “I’ve tried to read everything I could just to get ready for this, but I’m still way behind.”

“I don’t know where to begin,” Kaye said. Now that they were more relaxed, the way Mitch Rafelson looked at her — direct, honest, assessing her without being obvious about it — stirred something she had thought almost dead.

“Begin with where you two met,” Mitch said.

“Georgia,” Kaye said.

“The birthplace of wine,” Dicken added.

“We visited a mass grave,” Kaye said. “Though not together. Pregnant women and their husbands.”