“Yes, sir. There are two men with him besides the chauffeur. KGB, from the look of them.”
That would be Raslov, all right, Zachry decided. Of all the things he did not need right now, the Russian was high on the list.
He said, “Stall him. I’ll talk to Dr. K about letting him in, but it’s doubtful.”
“Yes, sir.”
Zachry hung up the telephone and pushed himself wearily up from the desk. He buttoned his collar and pulled the knot of his necktie up, then headed for the laboratories.
“Absolutely not!” Kitzmiller stormed. “I have no time for some sneaking, spying, double-talking pig of a Russian now. For every minute that goes by, people are dying. Now a member of my staff is infected.”
“If you would just talk to him — ”
“No! I have no time for Raslov and no time for you! Now please leave me to my work.”
Zachry started to make a last protest. “Doctor — ”
“Out!”
Zachry glanced quickly around at the other doctors in the laboratory. Their attitude was one of intense, urgent effort, as well it might be. He wondered which of the team was infected by the brain eaters and how big a threat that presented to the rest of them. A look at Kitzmiller’s face persuaded him against asking. He nodded and went out.
At the door to the laboratory he met Corey Macklin coming in. The reporter’s face was set in grim lines. There was none of the usual mocking humor in his eyes.
“Corey,” he began, “we’ve got a situation out in front that — ”
Corey cut him off. “Not now, Lou.”
Zachry turned and stared at the younger man. “Something wrong?”
“Plenty.” Corey pushed past him and made for the still-glowering Dr. Kitzmiller.
Zachry watched him for a moment, then suddenly knew which of Kitzmiller’s staff had been stricken. He shook his head and walked away.
Dr. Kitzmiller looked at Corey with the air of a weary lion on the point of attacking his keepers.
“Can I not have five uninterrupted minutes in which to do the work I am here for? What is it, Mr. Macklin?”
“Dena — Dr. Falkner — was going to take the blood test.”
“Yes. The test was administered by Dr. Pena this morning.”
“Do you have the results?”
“I do.”
Corey waited for several seconds, then burst out, “Well?”
Kitzmiller sighed. “The results are positive. The parasites are in Dr. Falkner’s bloodstream.”
“Ooohh, shit.”
“We are trying a new approach to the problem today,” Kitzmiller said in a more gentle tone.
“What’s the prognosis?”
“We may as well be optimistic, since the alternative is despair.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Now, if you will excuse me, the sooner I can get back to my work, the better chance we will have of finding the cure in time.”
“Yeah,” Corey said again. “Thanks.”
He caught Dena’s eye from a counter where she was working and gave her a grin. She toasted him with an Erlenmeyer flask of murky liquid and returned to her notebook. Corey walked out silently.
The three Russians were standing outside their car, sweating in their woolen suits, when Lou Zachry approached. Viktor Raslov, slight and balding, with steel-rimmed spectacles, stood in the middle. The two KGB men flanked him like twin turrets. Raslov’s face was reddened with anger. Zachry put on a conciliatory smile.
“Mr. Raslov, it’s a pleasure to — ”
“Never mind that,” the Russian snapped. “Am I allowed to enter, or am I not?”
“The fact is that Dr. Kitzmiller will admit no one. He can make no exceptions. You understand it is for the protection of both those inside and out here.”
“I understand that this is a grave insult to my country.”
Lou Zachry’s expression hardened. “I think, Mr. Raslov, that diplomatic insults are low priority these days, to Dr. Kitzmiller and to everyone else. Perhaps if you told me your business — ”
“What is your position here?”
“I represent the United States government.”
Raslov considered for a moment, then said, “I have reason to believe that a countryman of mine may have come here and may be inside. His name is Anton Kuryakin.”
“Why would he come here?”
“That is not of immediate importance. Is he here?”
“He is not.”
“Am I to accept your word for that?”
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice.”
“If he does come here can I depend on you to see that I am informed?”
“I can’t promise that.”
Raslov gave him a long, icy stare. “And you will not allow us inside?”
“I don’t have that authority,” Zachry said.
“Then I must take steps to protect the welfare of my countryman. Furthermore, your government may expect this matter to be protested in the strongest possible terms.”
Zachry nodded gravely and watched the Russians get back into their hired car. They drove a little way down the highway and stopped.
Go ahead and park there, he thought. Park there till Moscow votes Republican, for all I care. He nodded briskly to the guard and walked back inside. He turned to watch the security man relock the gate behind him.
Anton Kuryakin bounced on the stiff springs of the pickup truck as he drove along, gripping the wheel. The big, cushiony sedan had succumbed outside Hortonville to concealed damage to the radiator sustained in the collision with the light standard in Milwaukee.
Kuryakin had abandoned the sedan and walked a mile to the nearest farmhouse. When no one answered his knock there, he opened the door, to find a family of four sprawled in various grotesque attitudes. They had been dead at least two days. He shooed away the fat buzzing flies long enough to remove from the man’s overall pocket the keys to the truck parked in front of the house. The pickup was a no-nonsense, serviceable machine, closer to the Russian automobiles than the spongy sedan he had driven from Milwaukee.
The clouds had lowered in the sky and darkened to a dull slate gray. The heat pressed down like a giant hand. Kuryakin rolled down the windows on both sides of the cab and removed his heavy suit coat. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt.
On the seat next to him was a yellow-billed cap of the kind that adjusts to all head sizes. On the front of the cap was the name John Deere, which Kuryakin recalled was an American manufacturer of farm machinery. He tried the cap on and regarded himself in the rearview mirror. It looked rather well, he thought. He left it on.
He drove on along the highway he had carefully plotted on the map and slowed the pickup when he felt he must be nearing Biotron. He searched for familiar landmarks, but along that stretch of highway everything was the same — neatly kept farmhouses, with their cluster of outbuildings, separated by patches of dense forests.
Then, suddenly, there was a tall chain link fence on his right with posted warnings for trespassers. The truck passed a clump of maple trees, and Kuryakin saw up ahead the guard shack and gate of the Biotron plant.
Kuryakin’s elation died abruptly when he saw the limousine parked outside the gate. A small knot of men stood beside the machine, talking. There was no mistaking the dark, poorly cut suits of Viktor Raslov and the KGB men. Kuryakin kept his eyes on the road, his hands on the wheel, and drove on past the gate, being careful to maintain the same moderate speed. He gave silent thanks for the yellow cap and the rolled-up sleeves. A pickup truck such as he was driving was a common sight on Wisconsin roads, but even had someone taken the trouble to look at the driver, he would pass for an American farmer.