He'd then reversed his course, climbing back through the fissure and then up the crevice and hiked back to the Highlander, where he'd called Grimsdottir and had her conference in Lambert.
"Remember Peter's words, 'Red . . . tri . . . my . . . cota'?" Fisher asked.
"I remember," Lambert said.
"It's just a gut feeling on my part, but I think it's a biological reference. A fungus of some kind, I'm guessing." He explained what he'd found in the cave. "And I'm willing to bet this stuff--whatever it is--is what's inside the canister I found aboard Wondrash's plane."
"Curiouser and curiouser," Grimsdottir said. Fisher could hear her tapping her keyboard. "We've got a compiled biological database here somewhere . . ." she muttered. "Yeah, here it is . . . Okay, I'm doing a fuzzy search using those key words. Hang on . . ." Thirty seconds later she was back. "Whoa, give that man a gold star."
"What?" Lambert asked.
"It's called Chytridiomycota-- tri . . . my . . . cota. Peter was close; he had most of it, right down to the color, with just a few letters transposed. Chytridiomycota is a kind of fungus. Comes from the Greek chytridion, which means 'little pot'--or a structure that contains dormant spores. Approximately a thousand species in a hundred twenty or so genera, distributed among--"
"Bottom line it, Grim," Lambert said. "What is it?"
"A fungus. A motile, spore-producing fungus."
"And it does what?"
"Specifically? I don't know. That's over my head," Grimsdottir replied. "According to what's in front of me, there are about seventy thousand known species of fungi in the world, but that's estimated to be only about five percent of what's likely out there. So, we're talking about maybe two million species of fungi--most of which we haven't even found."
"Give me a comparison," Fisher said.
"Birds: five thousand species in the world. Insects: There are about nine hundred thousand different types. Compared to those, they know nothing--absolutely nothing--about fungi or what they can do. In fact, I just read a CDC report last month: Fungal-based diseases are on the rise, and a lot of the medical community think it's the next big, bad epidemiological nightmare."
"Christ," said Lambert.
The scourge of Manas, Fisher thought.
THEsecond half of the meeting picked up where it had left off: an argument between the biologists over what exactly Chytridiomycota was, its classification, its cellular makeup, and so on. Fisher noticed one of the biologists, a woman named Shirley Russo from the CMLS, wasn't partaking in the debate but rather jotting notes, grimacing, and shaking her head.
As had most of Washington's elite, Fisher had heard of Russo. The sole heiress to an old-money Connecticut family fortune, Russo had broken the mold and instead of letting herself ease into the role of uberrich benefactor-socialite, had at the age of fifty gotten her Ph.D. in biology. Rumor had it she donated every penny of her salary to the International Dragon Boat League, which sponsored fund-raising dragon boat races for breast cancer survivors. Looking at her slim frame, Fisher guessed Russo had spent a fair amount of time at the oars herself.
He caught Lambert's gaze and gestured with his eyes toward Russo.
Lambert broke in. "Dr. Russo, you look like you have something to say."
Russo looked up from her pad and cleared her throat. "I have a theory," she said.
"A fringe theory," one of her fellow biologists said.
The DCI gave him a hard stare. "Why don't you let us worry about that. Dr. Russo."
She hesitated, then said, "One of the areas I study is called petro-parasitology. I think this fungus you--or whoever--found is a petro-parasitic organism. I agree with the others: I think it belongs to Chytridiomycota, but that's like saying birds and bees are alike because they both have wings."
"Petro-parasitic," Lambert said. "I assume that means what I think it means?"
Russo nodded. "That it eats petroleum-based substances? Yes, that's exactly what it does."
Fisher and Lambert exchanged worried looks.
The other biologists began talking, arguing back and forth across the table. Russo simply folded her hands on her legal pad and waited. The DCI brought the meeting back under control and then said to Russo, "Go on, Doctor."
"The problem is," she said, "that we've never seen a fungi that does this. Technically, there's no reason why it couldn't exist. There are enzymes we use to clean up oil spills all the time. They feed on the oil, neutralize it, then die and degrade and become part of the food chain."
"But you're not talking about that, are you?" said Lambert.
"No. I'm talking about a self-sustaining organism that feeds on petroleum-based substances--from crude oil, to kerosene, to the gas we put in our cars--then replicates and spreads, just like a fungal colony would. See, the thing about fungus is that it's hearty, tenacious stuff. It's hard to kill and harder still to make sure you've killed it all. It can lie dormant for years--for millennia--then just flip itself back on and pick up where it left off."
"Okay," the DCI said, "clearly the rest of you have concerns about Dr. Russo's theory. Am I correct?" There were emphatic nods around the table. "But let me ask you this--and I want to hear it straight--is her theory plausible? Could there be something to it?"
No one responded.
"Goddamn it," the DCI barked. "I don't care about your egos, or your funding woes, or whether a theory is mainstream or fringe. If anyone at this table either doesn't believe Dr. Russo's theory is plausible or has a better theory, speak up right now, or I'll make sure you spend the rest of your careers counting fly turds."
Again, none of the scientists responded. Some looked at their hands; others shifted nervously in their seats. The DCI looked at each one in turn. "No? No one?" He turned to Russo again. "Doctor, I assume you have some ideas how we can confirm or refute whether this stuff is . . . What did you call it?"
"Petro-parasitic."
"Right."
Russo thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll have an answer for you in the morning."
THEDCI thanked and excused the group, save Fisher, Lambert, the DOE undersecretary, and the scientist from the High Energy Physics division, a tall, balding man with thick, wiry eyebrows named Weldon Shoals.
"There's another component to this issue we need to discuss," the DCI said. "I know everyone here has top secret and above clearance, but I'll remind you that whatever we discuss stays here."
The undersecretary and Shoals nodded.
The DCI turned to Lambert. "Irv, if you would."
Lambert spent the next ten minutes outlining what they knew and what they suspected about PuH-19. He left out any mention of Peter, Calvin Stewart, Bolot Omurbai, or the North Koreans. Top secret clearances or not, these men didn't have the need to know.
"The question we have," the DCI said, "is what could someone with technical know-how do with this fungus, some PuH-19, and a linear particle accelerator?"
"You mean, could they create a giant fungus monster, or some kind of cancer supercure?" Shoals said, straight-faced.
Fisher chuckled. The DCI, hiding his own smile, replied, "No, what I'm asking is could the fungus's characteristics be enhanced--altered."