63

Baltimore

Kaye opened the door to the condominium and walked in slowly. She kicked the heavy door shut with two bangs of her foot, then leaned into it with her hand to get it latched. She dropped her purse and valise on the chair and stood for a moment as if to get her bearings. She had not slept in twenty-eight hours.

It was late morning outside.

The phone message light blinked at her. She retrieved three messages. The first was from Judith Kushner, asking her to call back. The second was from Mitch, leaving an Albany phone number. The third was from Mitch also. “I’ve managed to get back to Baltimore, but it wasn’t easy. They won’t let me in the building to use the key you gave me. I tried Americol but the switchboard says they’re not transferring outside calls, or you’re not available, or something. I’m worried sick. It’s hell out here, Kaye. I’ll call in a few hours and see if you’re home.”

Kaye wiped her eyes and swore under her breath. She could hardly see straight. She felt as if she were stuck in molasses and no one would let her clean her shoes.

Americol had been surrounded by four thousand protesters for nine hours, shutting off traffic all around the building. Police had moved in and succeeded in roiling the crowds, breaking them into smaller and less controlled groups, and riots had broken out. Fires had been started, cars overturned.

“Where do I call, Mitch?” she murmured, taking the phone out of its recharging cradle. She was paging through the phone book, looking for the number of the YMCA, when the phone rang in her hand.

She fumbled it to her ear. “Hello?”

“Dark Intruder again. How are you?”

“Mitch, oh God, I’m okay, but I’m so tired.”

“I’ve been walking all over downtown. They burned part of the convention center.”

“I know. Where are you?”

“A block away. I can see your building and the Pepto-Bismol Tower.”

Kaye laughed. “Bromo-Seltzer. Blue, not pink.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want you here anymore. I mean, I don’t want to be with you here anymore. Mitch, I’m not making sense. I need you so badly. Please come. I want to pack and get out. The bodyguard is still here, but he’s down in the lobby. I’ll tell him to let you in.”

“I didn’t even try to get the job at SUNY,” Mitch said.

“I quit Americol and theTaskforce. We’re equal now.”

“We’re both bums?”

“Shiftless and rootless and with no visible means of support. Other than a large bank account.”

“Where will we go?” Mitch asked.

Kaye reached into her purse and pulled out the two small boxes containing SHEVA test kits. She had taken them from the common stores area on the seventh floor at Americol. “How about Seattle? You have an apartment in Seattle, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Exquisite. I want you, Mitch. Let’s go live forever and ever in your bachelor apartment in Seattle.”

“You’re nuts. I’m coming right over.”

He hung up and she laughed in relief, then broke into sobs. She smoothed the phone against her cheek, realized how crazy that was, put it down. “I am really strung out,” she told herself, walking to the kitchen. She kicked off her shoes, pulled a Parrish print that had belonged to her mother from the wall, laid it on the dining room table, then all the other prints that belonged to her, her family, her past.

In the kitchen, she drew a glass of cold water from the refrigerator tap. “Screw luxury, screw security. Screw propriety.” She worked through a list often other items to screw, and at the end of the list came “goddamned stupid me.”

Then she remembered she had better let Benson know Mitch was coming.

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.

65

Baltimore

Kaye swung the garment bag to her shoulder. Mitch grabbed two suitcases and stood in the door, held open by a rubber chock. They had already loaded three boxes into the car in the condo garage.

“They tell me to keep in touch,” Kaye said, and held up a black cell phone for Mitch’s inspection. “Marge pays for this. And Augustine tells me not to give any interviews. That I can live with. What about you?”

“My lips are sealed.”

“With kisses?” Kaye bumped him with her hip.

Benson followed them down to the garage. He watched them load Mitch’s car with a plain expression of disapproval.

“You don’t like my idea of freedom?” Kaye asked the agent with a piquant expression as she slammed the trunk. The car’s rear springs groaned.

“You’re taking everything with you, ma’am,” Benson responded stonily.

“He doesn’t approve of the company you keep,” Mitch said.

“Well,” Kaye said, standing beside Benson, brushing back her hair. “That’s because he’s a man of taste.”

Benson smiled. “You’re a fool to leave without protection.”

“Maybe,” Kaye said. “Thanks for your vigilance. Pass along my gratitude.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Benson said. “Good luck.”

Kaye hugged him. Benson blushed.

“Let’s go,” Kaye said.

Kaye fingered the door frame of the Buick, its dusty blue finish powdery and matte with wear. She asked Mitch how old the car was.

“I don’t know,” Mitch said. “Ten, fifteen years.”

“Find a dealership,” Kaye said. “I’m going to buy you a brand-new Land Rover.”

“That’s roughing it, all right,” Mitch said, lifting an eyebrow. “I’d prefer we be less obvious.”

“I love the way you do that,” Kaye said, lifting her much less impressive eyebrow dramatically. Mitch laughed.

“Screw it, then,” she said. “Drive the Buick. We’ll camp out under the stars.”