Pandemic

Despondent, she reached for the remote and turned the TV on to CNN. Ominously, the network had gone to twenty-four-hour coverage of the story. A subtitle in red ran along the bottom of the screen, screaming the alternating headlines: "Department of Homeland Security upgrades terrorist threat advisory from code orange to code red" and "22 dead, at least 100 infected in Illinois." Gwen already knew about the spiraling human toll, but the TV clips of hearses pulling away from hospitals and interviews with distraught families brought the bioterrorist attack on her country home in a visceral way that the sterile government statistics hadn't. Gwen was further dismayed by the coverage of the rest of the country's reaction. Though no cases had been reported outside of Illinois, in cities as remote as Houston and Los Angeles people had begun to stockpile gas masks and nonperishable supplies.

A musical tone from her computer indicated someone was requesting a videoconference. She muted the TV with the remote and then clicked on the computer's messenger icon. A video window popped open framing Alex Clayton inside. He was dressed as suavely as ever in a dark-on-dark shirt and jacket ensemble, but his hair was uncharacteristically out of place and deep bags had formed under his eyes. Suddenly he looked all forty of his years to Gwen.

"Gwen!" Clayton held out his hand to the camera. "How are you?"

She smiled halfheartedly. "Stuck indoors on a beautiful day, but otherwise okay."

"We cannot afford for you to get sick, do you hear?" he said, stone-faced.

"Your concern is touching, Alex, but I have no intention of getting sick."

His expression softened. "What are the chances?"

"Hard to know, but Noah figures they're slim. Probably less than ten percent."

Clayton squinted. "Noah?"

"Dr. Noah Haldane, the WHO expert on emerging pathogens. He might be the world authority on the Gansu Flu." She sighed. "And he's quarantined one room over from me."

Clayton's face broke into its first flicker of a smile. "For what it's worth, my mom always forces cod liver oil and vitamin C down my throat at the first sign of cold or flu."

"I'll keep it in mind." She laughed. "Your mom got any homespun remedies for level-four lethal viruses?"

The levity vanished from his expression. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "All hell is breaking loose in Washington, Gwen. This could be worse than 9/11. The President wants answers."

Gwen nodded calmly. "What do you know so far?" She knew their secure socket Internet connection meant they could talk freely.

"Not enough," Clayton sighed. "We've got our bureaus in the Middle East working twenty-four/seven to identify the woman but so far nada. And the RCMP haven't figured out how she got into Canada." He shrugged. "One small break. We think we know how the terrorists got their hands on the virus in the first place."

"How?"

"Carnivore picked up an e-mail a couple of weeks ago sent by a deputy director of a hospital in Gansu to his supervisor. In it, he confesses to helping two Malaysians steal blood from an infected patient. We checked it out with the Chinese. Apparently, the guy killed himself after he sent the e-mail, and his supervisor hid the message out of fear of reprisal." Clayton interlocked his fingers in front of him and cracked the knuckles aggressively. "That weasel is going to learn the meaning of fear, but in the meantime the trail has gone stone cold."

"What about the Malaysians?"

"Could be from the militant group, Jemaah Islamiah. The same ones who masterminded the Bali bombing." He paused. "But our analysis tells us this is too sophisticated for them. And when you throw in the dead Arab woman in Vancouver and the other in London…" He shook his head. "It's likely the Malaysian role was limited to getting the virus out of China."

Gwen studied her desktop, assimilating the details. "And from China to Africa?"

"It looks that way," Clayton said. "Especially when you add the executed terrorist to those missing African lab supplies."

"Al Qaeda?" Gwen asked.

"Always possible."

"What's next, Alex?"

He shook his head and his shoulders slumped. Even in the small video box, Savard saw the change in Clayton. He had lost much of his cavalier edge. She decided Clayton embodied the mood of his country: once cocky and invincible, the attack on Chicago had exposed vulnerability and shaken his confidence to the core.

"We've doubled the staff at Carnivore," Clayton said. "Our satellites are trained on all global hotspots. We're working with the RCMP to track the Vancouver terrorist's trail and find her accomplices. We're sending scores of agents and special ops people to the Middle East and East Africa."

"Are those governments cooperating?" Gwen asked.

He held up his palms and shrugged. "They always swear that we have their full and utter cooperation, but you know how it works. Half the time they're secretly funding the bastards."