‘I’ll be damned,’ murmured Cloke.
‘Is this it? The key to the cipher?’
‘Almost certainly.’
‘Then get to work.’
Tombes crouched in the corner of the room. He checked his Motorola for charge. The green power light fluttered amber. Low battery.
‘Donahue. You there?’
He held the radio close to his ear.
‘Where else would I be?’ Her voice little more than a whisper.
‘How you doing?’
‘All right, I guess. Going crazy sitting in the dark. I keep hearing noises, like there’s something in the room.’
‘What kind of sounds?’
‘Breathing. Shuffling. Each time I check, there’s nothing. Mind playing tricks.’
‘Feeling okay?’
‘Nausea. Got a murderous, fuck-ass headache.’
‘Try not to puke. You could be trapped with the stink for hours. That door still holding?’
‘They stopped pounding the damn thing a while back. Let me check.’
Brief pause.
‘Yeah. Yeah, she’s good. She’s holding.’
‘Don’t make a sound. Relentless sons of bitches. Patient, like sharks circling a boat. They’ve got our scent. Blood in the water.’
‘Royal clusterfuck. The whole thing.’
‘I can’t talk long. Battery is running low. I’ve got to conserve power. But you stay safe, you hear? The minute you got a problem, sound off. We’ll come running.’
‘Okay.’
‘Take it easy. Try to get some rest, if you can.’
46
David Moxon
Bellevue Dept of Neuroscience
I kept Knox company the night he died.
Ekks insisted the condemned man be extended every consideration. At the very least, he should expect the same privileges as a man on death row. He should be told his fate. He should be given a chance to make his peace with himself, his God. He should be given pen and paper, an opportunity to make a final statement.
I wasn’t present when Knox was told he was to be dissected. I heard about it later.
They took him from his chalk-outline cell. He was cuffed and led to the train, told it was part of a routine medical examination. He had endured long days without sunlight. They said they were checking for vitamin D deficiency.
He was isolated in one of the carriages. He was stripped and photographed. They shaved his head. They returned his clothes and chained him to a seat. Then they explained he was marked for death.
Harold Donner, one of the doctors from Bellevue, delivered the news. Knox was to die. He would be deliberately infected, so that Ekks and his team could study the first moments of infection. There would be no anaesthetic, no sedative. Nothing that might interfere with the validity of the results.
Knox screamed and raged. He thrashed, tried to break his cuffs, tried to break the chain that held him tethered to the seat. He begged. He pleaded. He wept.
Donner shook his head. He said he was sorry.
Knox demanded to speak to Ekks. Ekks wouldn’t talk to him. Said he was busy.
The procedure was scheduled to begin at midnight.
Knox had twelve hours to prepare himself for death.
My task?
To keep him company during the last hours of his life. Talk. Pray. Fulfil any request within my power. Above all, I was to ensure he did not escape or injure himself. When midnight came, the tie-down team would lead him to the adjacent carriage and strap him to the examination table. Then he would face the needle. A sample of the pathogen would be drawn from biological material supplied by NORAD. It would be injected into his arm.
He sat alone in the carriage. He wore a red prison-issue smock and pants. Bare feet. He was chained to the passenger seat by an ankle shackle. Garbage bags had been taped over the windows so he couldn’t see medical personnel carry surgical equipment across the platform to the improvised operating theatre in the adjacent carriage.
Knox had been given a bible. A faux leather King James. It sat unopened beside him.
I set down a tray. His last meal. A couple of luncheon meat sandwiches and a fruit beverage.
‘Do you want to pray?’ I asked.
‘Fuck you.’
‘It might help.’
‘Help who? You or me?’
‘You’re not a religious man?’
‘Look around you. A billion dead. A billion prayers unanswered. If Jesus didn’t break cover to help countless grieving mothers, why the hell would he intercede to save my sorry ass?’
‘It might ease your mind. The sound. The old words.’
‘God is gone. Packed his bags and left. No forwarding address. Nothing in the sky but infinite dark.’
‘I brought a clock.’
‘To watch my life tick away? How the hell would that help?’
‘Anything you want to talk about? You got a few hours left.’
‘Seriously. Fuck you.’
‘Any messages you want to pass on? I could help you write a letter.’
‘Think I’m stupid? Think I don’t know how to write my name?’
‘No.’
‘Read a damn sight more books than your cracker ass. Better educated than half the guys in this sewer.’
‘I could fetch pen and paper. Got relatives somewhere? We might be able to get a message to them, somehow.’
‘What if I said I had kids? A family out there, worrying about their dad? Would you give a crap?’
‘Maybe we should just sit a while.’
‘I’m chained to the seat. Ain’t got much choice.’
‘I can get water. More food, if you need it.’
‘Let me ask you something. Ekks. Do you trust him?’
‘Barely spoke to the guy. I’m just a turn-key.’
‘You’ve known the man, what, a week? And here you are, colluding in murder.’
‘He got us out of Bellevue. The handful that stayed behind? Those assholes convinced tanks and planes were coming to the rescue? Long dead.’
‘He saved you folks because you were useful.’
‘Those doctors and nurses out there have known him for years.’
‘Got a mind of your own, don’t you? What do you think of the guy?’
I shrugged.
‘I’m sorry it came down to this.’
‘What’s your name?’ asked Knox.
‘Moxon. David.’
‘They’re going to kill me, Dave. They’re going to kill me and cut me up. Pull out my spine. Crack open my head.’ He tapped his temple. ‘This skull. Right here. They’ll saw it open and scoop out my brain. My brain, dude. Thoughts, memories, emotions. They’re going to take it all away.’
‘I’m sorry, man. Sorry you drew the short straw.’
‘Do you even know why you’re doing this? Any of you?’
‘A cure.’
‘They are going to inject me with the virus. They’ll watch me change. Then they’ll set the cameras rolling and dissect me like a frog, do it while I’m still alive. How the hell does that help? Thousands of infected roaming the streets. Why would one more make a difference?’
‘I’m not a doctor.’
‘Even the white coats don’t understand why this is necessary. I’ve heard them whispering outside the window. No one has the balls to stand up to the guy. Too chickenshit. He wants to instigate murder, and everyone falls in line. Makes no damned sense whatsoever. He’s going to stick a needle in my arm, watch me die, and somehow that is going to result in some big-ass eureka moment? He’s going to kill me, here in this tunnel, and that’s going to provoke some world-shaking breakthrough, produce a cure that eluded Nobel Prize winners working in fully-equipped labs? You have to set me loose, kid. Undo these cuffs.’