Germ

He nodded and canted to his right, squeezing a hand into his pants pocket. "My turn to share."

He held up what looked like a fat, black dime. A small slot in its side pointed at a 1 stamped into the black plastic case. Rotating the slot ninety degrees would leave it pointing at the numeral 0. "I was going to attach this to your clothes sometime during our meeting. It would have allowed us to find you if you got cold feet and disappeared."

"I came to you."

"And look what happened. We could have been separated. They could have taken you. Never hurts to have one of these." He held it out to Vero. "Take it."

Vero thought for a moment, then shook his head. "No, it's not me that's important. Not anymore. You have the memory chip. You keep it."

Donnelley turned the transmitter over and peeled away a bit of paper. He retrieved the chip. After pressing the transmitter against it, he returned it to his pocket. The round paper he had pulled from the transmitter sat on the table. He tapped it with his fingernail. "The latest and greatest technology, tracking drug dealers and heads of state, and it all relies on two cents of adhesive."

Vero picked up a shot glass. Surprised to find it empty, he set it mouth-down on the table. "It has always fascinated me," he said, "that bombs get so much effort and attention, but hardly anyone thinks about the most important part, the delivery system. If it can't reach its target, what good is it?" He studied Donnelley's face. "This very issue held up my employer's plans for months."

"Plans for a bomb?"

"A virus."

"What plans, Vero? What does he want to do with this virus?"

"Kill people." He lowered his head, to Donnelley looking very much like a shamed child. "Lots of people, women and children."

"Is he still . . . only planning?" Vero's head moved: no.

"What is it? What's happening?" It dawned on Donnelley. "People," he said. "People make the perfect delivery system for viruses, right? It's you, isn't it?" He covered his mouth and nose. He thought of the time he'd spent with this man, in the car, here, and the ridiculousness of using his hand like a biofiltering mask. Hadn't he learned anything at the CDC? He let it drop back into his lap.

"I told you I'm not contagious," Vero said. He slid the upside-down shot glass in front of him from one hand to the other and back again. Quietly he said, "But I had a lot to do with all this. I worked on the project. I ran field tests, mostly in Africa."

"Africa? Is that where you worked?"

"The lab is far from there, that's the point. You shouldn't play with fire in your own backyard." He smiled thinly. "Plus, there's a lot of apathy about Africa. Westerners like to say that's not true, but it is. Deception is easier when people don't care."

"So why didn't you go to one of the CDC's offices in Africa? Or the European Center for Disease Control and Prevention in Sweden? It's much closer, and if time is a factor—"

"We only field tested in Africa. I was here . . . to release it. . . the germ."

His head dropped farther, until it nearly touched the shot glass. His shoulders hitched, and Donnelley realized the man was fighting back tears.

Vero said, "Que Deus me perdoe." He lifted a wet cocktail napkin and wiped his face. He raised his gaze to Donnelley, as though seeking absolution.

"Wait a minute." Donnelley reached across the table and grabbed his shoulder. "Are you saying now, here? That's what you were doing here?"

Vero nodded, lowered his gaze once more.

"Where? What exactly is it?"

"I came down the coast," he said. "There were four of us, working each time zone. I got Boston, New York, DC. In each city, I picked up a package at a mail center. A canister. I'd go to a mall, sit on a bench with a coat covering it. Turn the valve."

"You exposed thousands of people to a deadly virus?"

He seemed to be intensely studying something on the bottom of the shot glass. "Rhinovirus, most of them. Most common of common colds. Spreads fast, though."

"You're not talking about a common cold."

"Remember what I said about delivery systems." He shot his gaze around, checking for eavesdroppers. He scratched the inside of his ear and looked at the blood on his fingertip—some red and fresh, some brown and flaky. "When I got sick, I thought something had gone wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. I called Karl. He—"

"Karl?"

"Karl Litt, my boss. A monster." He said it with conviction "Karl he sounded concerned, said, 'Oh no, Despesorio. Hurry, finish the job and come home.' But I know him too well. I heard it in his voice There had been no mistake. But I should have kept my big mouth shut "

He punched himself in the cheek. Hard. Donnelley flinched but said nothing, could say nothing.

"I thought I could buy my way back, threaten my way home. I told him about my insurance policy."

"The memory chip."

"Instead of bargaining with me, he laughed. He said the list of targets had already gone out."

"Already gone out?"