The guy’s into riddles.”
“Any idea what it means?” David asked.
Jill sighed heavily. “Well, one of the names here was in the material that Trent gave me—William Birkin. We figured out that at least some of the others were researchers at the Spencer facility, so I’m willing to bet these people also work for Umbrella. Birkin may not have been at the estate when it was de-stroyed. I don’t recognize any of the others. .. ” David nodded. “I checked all of them with the S.T.A.R.S. database and came up blank. The rest, though . . . Is it a riddle of some sort?” Jill glanced back at the paper, frowning as she read it to herself again:
Ammon’s message received/blue series/enter answer for key/letters and numbers reverse/time rainbow/don’t count/ blue to access.
Rebecca took the paper from her as Jill looked back at David thoughtfully. “A lot of what Trent gave me seemed like pretty random stuff, but some of it related to the Spencer mansion’s secrets; the whole place was rigged with puzzle locks and traps. Maybe this is the same deal. It relates to something you’ll find—“ “Oh, shit.”
They all turned to Rebecca who was staring at the top of the page, her face drained of color. She looked at David with an expression of anxious despair. “Nicolas Griffith is on this list.”
David nodded. “You know who he is?”
She looked around at all of them, her young face openly distressed. “Yeah, except I thought he was
dead. He was one of the greats, one of the most brilliant men ever to work in the biosciences.” She turned back to David, her gaze heavy with dread. “If he’s with Umbrella, we’ve got a lot more to worry about than the T-Virus getting out. He’s a genius in the field of molecular virology—and if the stories are true, he’s also totally insane.” Rebecca looked back at the list, her stomach a leaden knot.
Dr. Griffith, still alive . . . and involved with Umbrel-la. Could today possibly get any worse? “What can you tell us about him?” David asked. Rebecca’s mouth felt dry. She reached for her glass of water and drained it before looking at David. “How much do you know about the study of viruses?” she asked.
He smiled a little. “Nothing. That’s why I’m here.”
Rebecca nodded, trying to think of where to start. “Okay. Viruses are classified by their replication strategy and by the type of nucleic acid in the virion—that’s the specialized element in a virus that allows it to transfer its genome to another living cell. A genome is a single, simple set of chromosomes. According to the Baltimore Classification, there are seven distinct types of viruses, and each group infects certain organisms in a certain way.
“In the early sixties, a young scientist at a private university in California challenged the theory, insist-ing that there was an eighth group—one based loosely on dsDNA and ssDNA viruses—that could infect everything it contacted. It was Dr. Griffith. He pub-lished several papers, and while it turned out that he was wrong, his reasoning was brilliant. I know, I read them. The scientific community scoffed at his theory, but his research on virus-specified inclusion bodies in the cytoplasm without a linear genome ...” Rebecca trailed off, noticing the blank expressions on their faces. “Sorry. Anyway, Griffith stopped try-ing to prove the theory, but a lot of people were interested to see what he’d come up with next.” Jill interrupted, frowning. “Where did you learn all this?”
“In school. One of my professors was kind of a science-history buff. His specialty was defunct theo-ries .. . and scandals.”
“So what happened?” David asked.
“The next time anyone heard from Griffith, it was because he’d gotten kicked out of the university. Dr. Vachss—that was my prof—told us that Griffith was officially fired for using drugs, methamphetamines—but the rumor was that he’d been experimenting with drug-induced behavior modification on a couple of his students. Neither of them would talk, but one of them ended up in an asylum and the other eventually committed suicide. Nothing was ever proved, but after that, no one would hire him—and as far as the facts go, that’s the last anyone heard of Nicolas Griffith.”
“But there’s more to the story?” David asked. Rebecca nodded slowly. “In the mid-eighties, a private lab in Washington was broken into by cops and the bodies of three men were found, all dead of a filovirus infection—it was Marburg, one of the most lethal viruses there is. They’d been dead for weeks; neighbors had complained because of the smell. The papers the police found in the lab suggested that all three men were research assistants to a Dr. Nicolas Dunne, and that they had allowed themselves to be deliberately infected with what they understood to be a harmless cold virus. Dr. Dunne was going to see if he could cure it.”
She stood up, crossing her arms tightly. The agony those men must have endured; she’d seen pictures of Marburg victims.
From the initial headache to extreme amplification in a matter of days. Fever, clotting, shock, brain damage, massive hemorrhaging from every orifice—they would’ve died in pools of their own blood. . ..
“And your professor thought it was Griffith?” Jill asked softly.
Rebecca forced the images away and turned to Jill, finishing the story the way Dr. Vachss had.
“Griffith’s mother—her maiden name was Dunne.”
Barry let out a low whistle, as Jill and Chris exchanged a worried look. David was studying her intently, his gaze cool and unreadable. All the same, she thought she knew what was going through his mind.
He’s wondering if this changes things. If I’ll go with him to see this Caliban Cove facility, now that I know it’s being run by people like Griffith. Rebecca looked away from David’s intense scrutiny and saw that the rest of her team was watching her, their faces tight with concern. Since that terrible night at the Spencer estate, they’d become like a family to her. She didn’t want to leave, to risk never seeing them again. . . .
. . . but David’s right. Without the support of the S. T.A.R.S., nowhere will be safe for any of us. And this would be my chance to contribute, to do what I’m good at-----
She wanted to believe that it was the only reason, that she’d be going to fight the good fight—but she couldn’t help the tiny shiver of excitement that ran through her at the thought of getting her hands on the T-Virus. It would be a golden opportunity to study the mutagen before anyone else, to categorize the effects and pick apart the virion right down to its smallest capsid.
Rebecca took a deep breath and blew it out, her decision made.
“I’ll do it,” she said. “When do we go?”
THREE
JILL FELT HER HEART QUICKEN AT REBEC-ca’s words, a feeling that things were happening too fast and that they weren’t prepared. Her decision seemed sudden, even though Jill really hadn’t doubted that she’d volunteer; Rebecca was a lot stronger than she looked.
She glanced around Barry’s wide, open living room, discreetly noting the reactions of her teammates. Chris’s face was strained, his mouth drawn as he stared absently at the map of Caliban Cove, while Barry walked across to one of the living room win-dows, staring out past the curtain and scowling at nothing in particular.
They’re worried about her, and maybe they should be; Griffith sounds like a serious psycho . . . but would any of us have hesitated if we’d been asked to go? It just proved that Rebecca was as committed as they were, also no great surprise. Getting to know the young Bravo had been one of the only bright spots in the frustrating days since the mansion had burned. The girl had been unfailingly optimistic about their chances against Umbrella even after their suspension, and had worked tirelessly to keep all of their spirits up. She was brilliant, too—and yet she never flaunted it, or came across as condescending when she was attempting to discuss aspects of the T-Virus with them.