“I’m sorry,” Otto said with his charming smile. “No questions at this time.”
Margaret let the door slip shut behind her, cutting off the reporter’s vehement protests. Clarence Otto could handle the media. He could probably handle a lot of things, some of which she didn’t want to know about, and some of which she thought about each night she spent alone in a hotel bed. She suspected she could easily seduce him; even at forty-two, she knew her long, glossy-black hair and dark eyes were part of a look that attracted many men. She thought herself an attractive Hispanic woman-men who wanted her told her she was “exotic.” Which was funny to her, because she was born in Cleveland. Sure, she had some extra baggage around the hips (and who the hell didn’t at forty-two?), and the wrinkles were becoming a bit more prominent, but she knew damn well she could have just about any man she wanted. And she wanted Clarence.
She quickly shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. When she got stressed, she got horny, as if her body knew the one surefire way to relieve mental tension. She was going to examine a corpse, for God’s sake, and she needed to keep her hormones in check. Margaret breathed deeply, trying to control her stress level, which seemed to soar higher with each case.
Almost as soon as she entered the hospital, another CIA agent, this one a middle-aged man she’d never seen before, fell in at her side and escorted her through the empty halls. She figured this guy, like Clarence, knew little of the whole story. Murray wanted it that way-the fewer people who knew, the fewer places from which information could leak.
She entered the morgue, which housed the recently erected portable decontamination chambers. Amos Braun, her only help in this hunt for answers to a biological nightmare, was waiting for her.
“Good morning, Margaret.”
She always thought his voice made him sound like a frog. Or maybe a toad. A drunk toad, slow and growly and maybe with only half his lips working correctly. The beyond-skinny Amos was somewhat effeminate and always the snappy dresser, though about ten years out of style. Most people initially assumed he was gay. His wife and two children, however, provided some evidence to the contrary. He always looked to be an hour or two behind on his sleep, even though his energy never faded.
Amos had been with her in Royal Oak when they’d examined Charlotte Wilson, and every step of the way since. He was one of the best in the business, granted, but he was all she had. She’d asked Murray for more staff, told him she needed more staff, but he’d refused-he wanted to control the flow of information, limit the number of those in the know.
“I’m surprised you beat me here, Amos.”
“Some of us aren’t off gallivanting around with the president, my dear. Becoming quite the celebrity, aren’t you?”
“Oh shut up and let’s get ready. We don’t have a lot of time if this body is like the others.”
They stepped into two small dressing areas concealed by plastic dividers. Inside each area hung an orange Racal suit, designed to protect the wearer against all types of hostile agents. The suits always reminded her of hell, of burned human skin hanging like some satanic trophy.
First she removed her clothes and donned surgical scrubs. She slid into the Racal suit, which was made of flexible Tyvek synthetic fabric, impermeable to air, chemicals or virus particles. The ankles, wrists and neck had intricate metallic rings. With the suit on, she stepped into special boots that had a metallic ring matching the ones on the suit legs. She snapped the rings together with a satisfying springy click, signifying an airtight seal. She then wrapped the seam with brown sticky tape, further sealing off her feet against possible contamination. She did the same with the thick Tyvek gloves, taping herself off at the wrist. Tape was overkill, particularly with the state-of-the-art Racal suit, but after seeing what this mysterious condition did to victims, she wanted all the precautions she could get. Margaret loosely wrapped several layers of tape around her arm; if she accidentally cut the suit, she could plug the leak as fast as possible.
They didn’t understand how the infection spread. Other than shared symptoms, there seemed to be no connection between the five known victims. It might be spread by contact via some unidentified human carrier; via airborne transmission (although that seemed very unlikely based on the fact that no one exposed to the victims contracted the infection); via common vehicle transmission, which applied to contaminated items such as food, water or any medication; or via vectorborne transmission, the name given to transmission from mosquitoes, flies, rats or any other vermin. Her current theory was far more disturbing: that it was being intentionally spread to specific targets. Any way she sliced it, however, until she knew the transmission mode for certain, she wasn’t taking any chances.
When Margaret came out from behind the curtain, Amos was already waiting for her. In the bulky suit with no helmet, he looked particularly odd-the suit’s helmet ring made his thin neck look positively anorexic.
She’d had to argue with Murray Longworth to keep Amos. Murray actually thought she could figure out a completely unknown biological phenomenon all by herself. She needed a full team of experts, but Murray wouldn’t hear of it.
She needed Amos’s expertise in biochemistry and parasitology. She knew the former discipline was vital for analyzing the victims’ bizarre behavioral changes, and she had a nagging feeling the latter would be increasingly significant. He was a smart-ass, but he was also brilliant, insightful and seemed to require little or no sleep. She was desperately grateful to have him.
Amos helped her with the bulky helmet, locking the ring to create the seal around her neck. The faceplate instantly fogged up. He wrapped her neck seal with the sticky tape, then started the air filter/compressor attached to the suit’s waist. She felt a hiss of fresh air; the Racal suit billowed up slightly. The positive pressure meant that in case of a leak, air would flow out of the suit, not in, theoretically keeping any transmission vectors away from her body.
She helped Amos with his helmet.
“Can you hear me?” she asked. Her voice sounded oddly confined inside her helmet, but a built-in microphone transmitted the sound to a small speaker mounted on the helmet’s chin. External microphones picked up ambient sound and transmitted it to tiny built-in speakers, giving the suit’s wearer relatively normal hearing.
“Sounds fine,” Amos said. His froggish voice came through somewhat tinny and artificial, but she understood his words clearly.
The hospital didn’t have an airtight room. Murray had provided a portable one, a top-secret Biohazard Safety Level 4 lab. Margaret hadn’t even known such a thing existed until Murray acquired it from the U.S. Army Medical Research Institute for Infectious Diseases, or USAMRIID. USAMRIID probably should have been the ones studying Brewbaker and the others, but since Margaret already knew, she got to run with the ball. Biohazard safety levels ran from one through four, with BSL-4 being as bad as it got.
The portable BSL-4 lab was small, designed to fit inside existing structures. Its flexible walls were set up within those of the morgue, almost as if kids had set up a large white, plastic tent in their parents’ basement. She knew exactly what she’d see in the small space, as she’d left very specific instructions for Murray. She’d find a stainless-steel morgue table with a full drainage system to capture Brewbaker’s liquefying body, a computer for sending and receiving information on a completely closed network, and a prep table with all the equipment she’d need, including a stack of BSL-4 sample containers that could be completely immersed in decontaminant solvent in the airlock, then shipped off to other BSL-4 labs for analysis.