‘Do I look worried?’
Lock had to concede that Stafford was a whole lot more composed than he’d imagined. Certainly more than when Lock had led him up on to the roof that night.
‘I’ve seen all the data, remember,’ Stafford continued. ‘The vaccine’ll work.’
‘Makes for a pretty damn solid endorsement if it does work,’ said Ty as on the other side of the screen Richard gingerly opened the container and filled a syringe from one of the vials. His hands were shaking.
‘I want you to know that I am administering this entirely against my will,’ he said as he pressed down on the plunger and forced the liquid into Nicholas Van Straten’s bloodstream.
A few minutes later, as Van Straten was led out, Stafford was led in. Nicholas looked straight past his son. His face was pale, his lips were edged white.
‘For God’s sake, it’s only vaccine,’ Stafford said. ‘It’s already been given to the trial subjects and they’ve shown no ill effects.’ He rolled his neck, as if working out some kinks left by a particularly strenuous set of tennis as two of Mareta’s men pushed him down on to the gurney. ‘I’ll stand, thanks.’
The two men forced him down on to the gurney and strapped him in as Lock and Ty shared a look of surprise.
‘Hey, could be worse,’ said Ty, ‘least he ain’t face down. Then he’d really be screaming for mommy.’
‘Not a show I’d be buying a ticket for,’ Lock said.
Behind Stafford, Richard walked over to a large refrigerator, opened the door and retrieved a stainless-steel vial with a rubber stopper from a large white cooler on the second shelf. His hands were steady now as he popped a fresh syringe from its sterile packet.
‘Come on, Hulme, let’s get this over with,’ Stafford taunted.
‘Yes, let’s,’ said Richard from behind the helmet of the bio-suit, filling the barrel.
Stafford raised his head as far as he could and stared, defiant, at the screen. ‘I mean, they’ve all had the vaccine, and they’ve suffered no ill effects.’
‘That’s correct,’ said Richard, emptying the contents into Stafford’s bloodstream.
‘So what do I have to worry about? Nothing, right?’
Richard paused. ‘Nothing at all, apart from the fact that I’ve just injected you with live Ebola variant.’
Eighty
Stafford’s stomach lurched with fear. He knew that the Ebola virus emptied your body from both ends. And when you had no more vomit or faeces left to expel, and you felt like things couldn’t get any worse, that was when the bleeding started. Ears, nose, mouth, anus. When multiple organ failure or hypovolemic shock showed up to put you out of your misery, it came as a relief.
But the process wasn’t instantaneous. Far from it. The virus took its time to take up residence in your body, secreting itself in your cells, lying in wait, giving you plenty of time to think about what lay ahead. And, as he stared at Richard’s upside-down features, unyielding behind the bio-suit, Stafford swore he could feel the Ebola variant dispersing through his body, hunkering down before it began its assault.
‘Give me the vaccine, Richard,’ he begged.
‘Give me one good reason why I should.’
‘You’re a doctor. You’ve taken an oath!’
‘That’s true. I did. But I need something from you in return.’
‘Anything. Name it. Listen, if this works, Meditech could be the first trillion-dollar biotechnology company. I’ll double your stock options. Treble them. Just name a figure.’
‘I don’t want money. I want you to go public on how you brought these people’ — he gestured round the room at Mareta and her companions — ‘into our country to use them like animals, and put the lives of millions of Americans in jeopardy, all so you could step out of your family’s shadow.’
‘Of course, of course. That won’t be a problem. Soon as I get that vaccine.’
‘No. Confession first, then absolution.’
‘But this stuff is already in me! The longer it takes for the vaccine to be administered the less likely my chances of recovery! You know that!’
‘Then we’d better move fast, hadn’t we?’
Behind the screen, Mareta was getting twitchy. Since she was wired to enough explosives to take them all with her, Lock figured twitchy was bad.
‘What are they talking about?’ she asked.
‘I’ll go find out.’
When he was halfway to the door it opened, and Richard emerged. He took off the helmet section of the bio-suit. Face flushed, he swiped at a curl of hair pinned flat to his forehead by sweat. ‘I’ve given him an ultimatum. He’s going to confess on live television.’
‘What was the ultimatum?’ Lock asked.
‘I just injected him with the Ebola virus. He keeps his part of the deal and he gets the vaccine.’
‘And how do you propose we get someone who’s a live carrier on the tube?’
‘Your friend’s a reporter.’
‘No chance. Way too risky. Carrie’s not setting foot in here.’
‘But this way people will know the truth.’
‘The truth? The truth is that someone importing terrorists to use as guinea pigs in a drugs trial aimed at neutralizing their biological capabilities would get a ticker-tape parade in every state in the nation.’
‘Excepting maybe Vermont,’ interjected Ty. ‘They’re commies.’
Mareta clapped her hands together. ‘Enough. I didn’t ask to plead for my life. But this new method’ — she turned to Richard — ‘this I like. Bring in the next test subject, give him the live agent too. Then we see if this vaccine really works.’
Eighty-one
Mareta sat in a chair, her bad leg propped up on the control desk. Both the Van Stratens and all the former guards who remained had been given the Ebola variant and returned to their cells. Mareta had decreed that an hour should elapse before they were given the vaccine. Nicholas Van Straten, having received both vaccine and agent, would act as some kind of mid-point control, with Lock and the former detainees at the other end of the spectrum. Only Richard, Ty and Mareta were wholly unsullied.
‘Should have brought some playing cards,’ Ty said, to no one in particular, as they watched the security monitors suddenly go blank.
Khalid, who was sat next to the control desk, experimentally tapped one of the screens, first with his hand and then with the business end of an M-16.
‘Hey, Fonzarelli, that won’t work. They’ve cut the power,’ said Lock.
Mareta shrugged, unfazed. A second later, the lights went out. The darkness was total. Then the beam of a Maglite search lit everyone’s face, bar Mareta’s.
There was a staccato exchange between Mareta and Khalid, then the light went out again and the door slammed.
‘Who’s here?’ Lock asked, moving two paces right.
‘Yo!’ Ty shouted.
‘I am,’ said Richard.
‘OK, Ty and Richard. Anyone else?’
Nothing. He listened again, the darkness blanketing them in paranoia.
‘Have they gone?’ It was Richard asking.
The answer came as another flashlight beam emanated from the control desk. Khalid was shining the light straight at Lock.
‘Listen, we can’t stay here. You understand?’
Khalid didn’t answer. He probably didn’t speak English, although given Mareta’s record Lock was taking no chances.
‘If you understand us, Khalid, say something, you dumb-ass mother-loving camel molester,’ Ty said.
Nope. Not even a guy who’d picked up a few key phrases from rap records.
‘Don’t think he speaks English, Ryan.’
‘Thanks for clarifying that for me, Tyrone.’
‘Welcome. You still armed?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Me too. Homeboy’s outnumbered.’