Germ

Litt picked up a pair of black sunglasses from a nightstand. Crumpled tissues fell to the floor. He stood and went back to the open door, slipping on the glasses as he did. He ran a palm from his forehead back over his nearly bald skull, flattening several long wisps of white hair.

"Tell him he must do it before Kendrick thinks of it. Kendrick no doubt believes we have already reclaimed the evidence Despesorio brought with him—if he knows about it at all. But it may occur to him to check the cop's body and personal effects. Atropos must beat him to it."

Gregor nodded and turned to leave.

"Gregor," Litt said, "remind him the chip was part of our agreement."

"Of course."

"I'll try to find out what Kendrick knows."

"You'll call him?"

"It's been awhile. Time to catch up."

Litt scanned him up and down. They were the same age, but where Litt appeared at least eighty, Gregor could have passed for fifty, fifty-five tops. He was trim with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair, more pepper than salt. He always wore black SWAT boots laced up over his pant legs, a sidearm holstered to a tightly cinched utility belt, and camouflage clothes, a different style and pattern every time Litt saw him, it seemed.

"You look like a houseplant," he said.

Gregor glanced down at himself. "It's called Fall Forest."

"All the rage among heads of security, I presume?"

Gregor laughed. "I wouldn't know, but I am practically invisible in the woods."

"Good for you." Litt closed the door.

sixteen

His family had been dead almost thirty years. Joe had not seen his seventh birthday. Jessica had not experienced even one. His sweet Rebecca, his wife for twenty years—he had not been able to hold her as she died. He had not been able to say I'm sorry. Kendrick Reynolds had not let him.

He wished, as he did every day, that they had had children earlier. If they had started growing their family when they were first married, maybe the kids would have been gone, away at college or on a road trip with friends, when Litt's work escaped the confines of his lab. Instead, they had waited. Litt had put his work first, as Kendrick had wanted. Up to that point, nearly his entire life had been in service to Kendrick. Since then, he had been in service to seeing Kendrick exposed, humiliated, dead.

Litt flipped a switch, and the room filled with red luminance, a color he found least irritating to his eyes. He sat at a small desk, swept away a pile of papers, and pulled a phone console close. He picked up the handset, punched in an encryption key and then a long string of numbers. He waited, listening to clicks and pops as the signal routed itself through a dozen different networks in as many countries. Finally he heard ringing on the other end. It was a dedicated line and completely untraceable.

When Kendrick Reynolds answered, Litt said, "I skunked you again."

"Good evening, Karl," Kendrick said, his voice slow and slight. The man was in his nineties. It was a wonder he could even talk, let alone scheme the way he did.

"Your man defected and got as far as the CDC's doorstep. You're getting lax."

"But I got to him before you did. That's all that matters."

"Okay, I concede your victory . . . this time." Kendrick paused, then said, "You were always competitive. A poor loser and a poor winner. I thought you would outgrow it, but you never did."

"And the only person you've ever cared about yourself. Once, I thought I'd misjudged you, but I hadn't."

Litt closed his eyes. He did not want to exchange petty insults. Why were they compelled to tread these waters time and again?

"You mean I made you believe there was more to me? Pray tell, when?"

Litt pressed his lips tight. "When . . ." He pulled in a deep breath and let it come out slowly. He imagined his anger leaving with it. He realized his fingers were aching from squeezing the handset and forced them to relax. "When you gave me your blessing to marry Rebecca. But now I know you were only tolerating me, appeasing me, to keep me compliant."

"You've been reading too much Freud."

"You never cared about her. Or Jessica. Or Joe. It must have infuriated you that we named him after my father and not you. I realize now that you had hoped for a way to get my family out of the picture. And you finally found one."

"Karl, you're wrong. You know I always loved—"

"Just curious," Litt interrupted, bringing the conversation back in line, "how did Despesorio—my defector—come to your attention? Do you have a keyword tap on the CDC phones?"

The old man coughed, his mouth obviously turned away from the phone. Ever so polite. Then he said, "And at USAMRID, the World Health Organization, all six of the world's biosafety level-four labs . . . everywhere someone with knowledge of you or your operation might show up. It was only a matter of time, Karl."

"It's been thirty years."

"The world is getting smaller. Technology is getting better. You can't hide forever."

"We'll see."

Silence.

"Karl, we can work something out."