Slater took a sip of his coffee, cold now, and watched as an upstairs window was cranked open a few inches and a curtain drawn. He thought he caught a snatch of conversation on the wind, a boy’s voice saying something about homework, and a woman’s laugh. Martha’s laugh. A few seconds later, the light went out.

Slater put his seat back even farther and closed his eyes. God, he was tired. It was cold out, but he still had his coat on, and it wasn’t bad inside the car. And it had been such a long day. Long, but productive. At least the mission was chugging along, and his dream team was coming together nicely. Dr. Eva Lantos had jumped at the chance to get out of her lab in Boston—“I will be so glad to give the mole-rat genome a rest!”—and Vassily Kozak had been tracked down to an industrial waste dump on the outskirts of Irkutsk, where he was completing a study of the chemical pollutants in the soil.

“I have recommended,” he said in his heavily accented English, “they should shut the city of Irkutsk, but they do not like this idea.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Not me either.”

Slater had told him, in strictest confidence, what he wanted him for in Alaska. Vassily had listened carefully as Slater continued to outline the task ahead, finally interrupting only to ask, “This Spanish flu — it killed many Russians?”

“Ten or twelve million, by the best estimates,” Slater replied.

“Do you think that it is still infectious?”

Slater knew that Vassily was asking him an honest question, and all he could do was give him the straightest answer he could. “No, I don’t believe it is,” he said, “but I can’t guarantee anything.”

Russians, even now, knew something about death — the twentieth-century toll, from warfare and disease, had been extraordinary by any measure. Other nationalities sometimes forgot their own past disasters, but for Russians a dreadful knowledge was bred in their bones, and Slater respected the caution it inspired to this day. “If you come, I’ll want you to start on an antiviral regimen right now, the same one everyone else on the team will be on — myself included.”

“And you will send me the names of these drugs?”

“I’ll do better. I’ll have them hand-delivered to you in Irkutsk.”

Vassily grunted, still thinking things over, as Slater explained some of the clearances that Vassily would have to get both from the Academy of Sciences on the Russian end, and the National Security Council, the AFIP, and maybe even the FBI on the other. And when he was done, he said, “I rest my case,” and waited for the verdict.

“I think maybe,” the professor said, “I have done enough in Irkutsk.”

Slater smiled and clenched his fist in triumph.

“And it would be a good thing, yes, to work with you again. Maybe we can make some history.”

Although history was the one thing Slater hoped they would not be making — his most fervent wish was that the mission would prove in the end to have been utterly unnecessary — he would take his victories any way he got them.

Now, only one big piece of the team was still lacking, and that afternoon Slater had driven over to the base at Fort McNair. The adjutant told him where to find Sergeant Groves, and he’d entered the gym as inconspicuously as possible. He hung out by the back, watching the bout, and even though Groves and his opponent were wearing padded gloves and helmets, every blow echoed with a thud.

The other soldiers had abruptly curtailed their workouts, dropping their jump ropes, giving the punching bags a rest, holding the dumbbells down by their sides. This was simply too good a match to ignore.

For somebody built like a bulldog, Groves was surprisingly nimble on his feet, bobbing and weaving his way around the ring. The other fighter was a white guy with a longer reach, though, and a couple of inches on him. A few times he let loose with a long, looping punch that caught the sergeant on his shoulder or the side of his head. Once, Groves was even rocked back on his heels by a powerful shot to the ribs.

But each time he was hit, he put his head down lower and came in again, like Mike Tyson minus the Maori tattoos.

A bell went off, and the two fighters immediately let their arms fall and retired to their respective stools. Groves had his head down, and was sipping water through a straw.

“The sergeant can really kick ass,” a soldier in a West Point T-shirt observed.

“You better believe it,” Slater replied.

“I hear he’s done three tours over there.”

“Four.”

The soldier glanced at Slater, who was unfamiliar and looked out of place in his civilian clothes — jeans and a white shirt, under an overcoat — and no doubt wondered how he knew. There was the staccato rattle of a punching bag being put back to use.

The bell rang again, and the two fighters got up and started circling the center of the ring. Groves was gleaming with sweat, but otherwise looked like he was raring to go. The other guy, however, was holding his hands a little lower, his shoulders were sagging, and halfway through the round he was throwing wild punches that failed to connect with anything.

“Oh yeah, Groves is gonna take him out,” the West Pointer said.

And true to the prediction, Groves waited no more than thirty seconds before moving in like a locomotive and unleashing a sudden volley of blows that sent his opponent not only against the ropes, but unexpectedly through them. The guy landed on the mat, spitting out his mouth guard and huffing for breath, while a pal helped him off with his helmet.

“Jesus, Groves,” the guy said, “take it easy.” He took another breath. “It’s not like there’s a purse.”

Groves spat out his own mouthpiece, and said, “Gotta fight like there is, Lieutenant. You always gotta fight like there is.”

Groves separated the ropes and stepped down from the ring. He was sitting on the bench, putting his gear back in his bag, when Slater left the corner of the gym and said, “So, is this your idea of downtime?”

The sergeant didn’t have to look up. “Hey, Frank — I’ve been expecting you.”

“That was a nice fight.”

Groves snorted and vigorously rubbed a towel over the top of his sweaty, shaved head.

Slater sat down on the bench. “When are you supposed to deploy?”

“Next Friday, with the Eighth Battalion.”

“Where?”

“Does it matter?” Groves said. “It’ll be 110 in the shade, with all the sand you can eat.”

Slater nodded as a couple of other guys clambered into the ring. “I don’t see how I can compete with that,” he joked. “Sounds like a regular resort.”

Groves zipped up his bag, then turned toward Slater, who saw now that his lip was split.

“I got your messages,” Groves said, “but I still don’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“Why you’re going out on another job — and in Alaska, of all places — when you’ve just been busted from the corps.”

“I’m going strictly as an epidemiologist. No Army this time, just civilian AFIP.”

“And do they know that you still get the shakes from the malaria? Since you’re the one who brought up the idea of taking time off, don’t you think you need to take a nice long furlough yourself?”

“I never know what to do with it,” Slater said, in what even he considered the understatement of the year. “And at least it won’t be the Middle East this time. Nobody’s shooting at anybody. It’s strictly medical research.”

“Then why do you need me?” the sergeant asked.

“Because I need someone I can trust to help me run the operation. In one week, we’re going to be off-loading roughly three tons of equipment on an island that I’m told is nearly inaccessible. There’s no place for a plane to land, no safe harbor for a ship of any size. We’re going to have to bring in the supplies by chopper, a lot like we did in Afghanistan, and we’ve got to hit the ground running.”

Groves blew out a breath and looked up as two new fighters feinted and jabbed.