TWENTY-FOUR
DURHAM, ENGLAND
The Whitcombs lived in a small Victorian cottage just off the University of Durham ’s main campus. The drive had taken more than six hours, and though Harvath was tempted to try to steal a little sleep along the way, he couldn’t risk it. They both needed to keep their eyes out for the police.
As Jillian pulled the tiny MG into the Whitcombs’gravel drive and killed the engine, Harvath glanced at her in the pale light spilling from the cottage. It was the first time he had really taken the opportunity to consider how attractive she was. Because the police would be looking for a woman with a tight bun, Harvath had suggested she let her hair down. It was a tremendous improvement. Her thick auburn tresses hung in loose curls around her shoulders, dramatically softening her features and causing her deep green eyes to stand out against her almost translucent white skin. Jillian Alcott now looked much less like the prim schoolmarm Harvath had pegged her for when he had first seen her leaving Abbey College.
When they reached the porch, Harvath peered through the curtains and noticed that despite the late hour, both of the Whitcombs were awake and waiting for them inside. Alcott didn’t wait for a response. She simply knocked and let herself in. Vanessa Whitcomb, a stylish woman in her mid-sixties with platinum chin-length hair and designer glasses, met them in the entryway. “Thank heavens you made it. Are you okay, my dear?” she asked as she threw her arms around Jillian and gave her a big hug. “Your message had us so worried. Then we saw the news. Do you know that there was a shooting in London? They’re looking for a woman who could be your twin sister. The resemblance is uncanny.”
“It’s not uncanny,” replied Alan Whitcomb, a taller, heavyset man with gray hair who appeared several years older than his wife. He looked Harvath up and down and with his eyes still locked on him said to Jillian, “It’s you in that footage, isn’t it? And this is the man who was there with you, the man with the gun. He’s the one the police are looking for, isn’t he?”
“Alan,” Jillian implored, having come to a decision during their time together in the car that she might actually be able to trust Harvath. “It’s not like that. Scot saved my life.”
Whitcomb didn’t know if he should believe her, and it was written all over his face.
“I mean it. If it wasn’t for him, I wouldn’t be standing here right now. I wouldn’t be standing anywhere for that matter. You have to believe me.”
Harvath stuck out his hand toward Whitcomb.
Alan looked at the hand warily, as if deciding how much bad luck might rub off on him from shaking it, and then gave in. “You two are in a lot of trouble.”
Harvath smiled and said, “I’ve seen worse.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not exaggerating?”
“He’s not,” replied Jillian, who turned to Vanessa and said, “It’s been a very long day. Do you mind if we come in?”
“Of course, dear. Of course,” said Vanessa as she ushered them into the house, every square inch of which was covered with books. Even the dining room where they ended up was lined from floor to ceiling.
Satisfied, for the time being, that Harvath had not brought Jillian to their home against her will, Alan disappeared into the kitchen and returned several minutes later carrying a large plate of antipasto, along with a bottle of wine and four glasses. “It’s not much, but I thought you might be hungry after your long drive.”
“Starving, actually,” replied Harvath. “Thank you.”
As they ate, Jillian filled the Whitcombs in on what had happened at Harvey Nichols, who Scot Harvath was, and why he wanted to meet them.
The Whitcombs were deeply disturbed to hear about the disappearance of Emir Tokay, who had also been one of their students. Even so, Emir’s situation didn’t take them entirely by surprise. They had harbored reservations about many of the people associated with the Islamic Institute for Science and Technology for some time.
When their meal was finished, Harvath tactfully moved the conversation back to the reason he and Jillian had come. As it was a chilly evening, Vanessa suggested they move into the living room, where Alan built a small fire in the fireplace. Once they were all installed, Mrs. Whitcomb cut right to the heart of the matter. “Based on the materials we’ve seen that Jillian got from Emir, it would appear that what we are dealing with is most definitely a pestilentiae manu factae.”
“I’m sorry,” said Harvath, his mind not as sharp as he would have liked it to be. “A what?”
“It’s Latin for man-made pestilence. That’s where our initial investigation is pointing. In fact, this is one of the first times Alan and I have both agreed on something like this right off the bat.”
“You don’t normally agree?”
“We practice two different brands of science, so we often have different ways of interpreting things.”
“I’m confused,” replied Harvath as Alan poured a little more wine into his glass. “I thought both of you were Jillian’s paleopathology professors.”
“Not exactly,” said Jillian. “I studied molecular biology under Alan in the graduate program here, and then he recommended me for Vanessa’s PhD program in paleopathology.”
“The brightest and most apt pupil either of us ever had,” replied Mr. Whitcomb.
“And I dare say we grew much closer to Jillian than any of our other students,” added Vanessa. “Even if we’d had children of our own, she still would be very special to us.”
“I don’t doubt it,” said Harvath as he began to better understand their relationship, especially Jillian’s role as a surrogate daughter. “So what about Jillian’s hypothesis?”
“I only know enough about Islamic science to know that I don’t like it. Though I can’t speak extensively to what relevance it may have to this case, I can speak to pestilentiae manu factae and say that they themselves have been used to affect society, political society in particular, for a long, long time.”
Harvath’s interest was definitely piqued. Taking a sip of wine, he asked, “How?”
“The term pestilentiae manu factae was coined by Seneca, the Roman philosopher and advisor to Emperor Nero, in the first century. It was meant to describe the deliberate transmission by mankind of plagues or pestilences. The ancients were very adept at manipulating their environment, and the history of the ancient world, particularly Roman civilization, is rife with stories of people who intentionally spread disease. In Rome, it often happened by pricking unsuspecting citizens with infected needles in order to undermine confidence in the empire’s leadership and topple unpopular governments.”
“Jillian said this mystery illness we’re dealing with resembles an entry in some kind of ancient Machiavellian cookbook called the Arthashastra?”
“Yes, it does.”
“I find it hard to believe that anybody in the modern world would be interested in something like that. Outside of academics, of course.”
“You’d be surprised,” responded Mrs. Whitcomb. “For some people, the Arthashastra still holds a lot of relevance, even to this day.”
Harvath looked at her. “Like whom?”
“I can give you a perfect example. As recently as two years ago, the Indian Defense Ministry began funding a study of the Arthashastra, hoping to uncover what they referred to as ‘secrets of effective stealth warfare,’ including chem-bio weapons, which could be used in the present day against India ’s enemies.”
“Such as Pakistan,” said Harvath.
Vanessa nodded her head and continued on. “Military experts and scientists from Pune University looked into things like a recipe of wild boar’s eyes and fireflies, which was supposed to give soldiers enhanced night vision capabilities. There was another recipe that called for shoes to be smeared with the fat of roasted pregnant camels or bird sperm along with the ashes of cremated children which would then give wearers the ability to march for hundreds of miles without getting tired.”