He dropped the slide into the biohazard bin along with the scalpel. The tweezers he put into a bin destined for the autoclave. The tissue in the jar itself he carried to the incinerator in the far corner. It reminded him of the one in which Dr. Johansson had lost her life and reminded him that he had to replace her. No rest for the weary.
Minutes later, the lab was clean — tissue disposed of, box packed away for recycling, countertop sterilized. It was as if he’d never worked in here at all.
The last obstacle to tomorrow’s larger-scale testing had been removed. He opened the refrigerator to take out the samples stored there. When he opened the door, light reflected off a row of stoppered glass tubes. The contents didn’t need to be refrigerated, but this was the most convenient place to store them.
That was the genius of it — the parasite was so hardy that it was easy to store and transport. Simple, too, to administer. The test tubes in front of him contained enough material to infect a thousand soldiers. And, best of all, the parasite was common enough that twenty-five percent of the population of the United States already carried it; other countries had high incidences of it as well. An autopsy of anyone infected with his strain might find the parasite, but they would dismiss it. The parasite was so common as to be beyond suspicion.
He picked up a test tube and held the cool glass up to the light. Over many years, he had refined the sample stored there. He had tested it on rats, on primates, and on humans. There had been many failures that he tried not to think of, but successes, too.
That the parasite changed the behavior of its host had been documented before Dr. Dubois was born. The microscopic creature changed its host to suit its own needs — causing rats to run to cats to be devoured, or humans to behave with increased recklessness and promiscuity. Fine-tuning the parasite to suit the military’s needs had taken years. But he had succeeded.
It was hard to believe that it had started with a simple cat, that each one of these creatures had passed through a cat’s gut and out the other end. He had truly mined gold from shit.
He studied the gleaming tube, imagining the creatures teeming within. He had built them to make soldiers do his bidding. And they had.
Only a few more minutes of his lunchtime laboratory ban remained. He swung a metal briefcase onto the counter next to the refrigerator. Specially manufactured foam lined the inside. The foam contained divots the size and shape of the stoppered test tubes. They wouldn’t clink, they wouldn’t rattle, and they wouldn’t break, even if the case were dropped. One by one, he pressed the precious glass containers into their manufactured shell.
Tomorrow morning he would take a train to Manhattan. He’d hand-deliver the case to Agent Marks of the CIA, and the trials would start by the end of the week.
In a few days, a thousand men would be infected.
Chapter 24
Ozan circled the vast building like a hawk waiting for a mouse to appear in a new-mown field. First, he stationed himself in the great hall itself, watching people come and go until he was satisfied that Tesla was not among them. Then he did a quick walk through the glittering shops and yuppie marketplaces. He didn’t expect to find Tesla there — loitering would be noticed — and he didn’t. Ditto the food court and restaurants.
He’d easily evaded the net of policemen, surprised at the number of men that they had deployed. Why was 523’s murder so important to them? Or maybe they searched for the one who had murdered one of their own. Even for that, the numbers seemed excessive. 523 and his documents held expensive secrets.
He checked train platforms. Police were stationed there, so he didn’t expect Tesla to be hanging out on them, but maybe nearby. He flashed an old CIA-supplied badge to one of the police officers guarding Platform 14 and was waved in, probably because he looked nothing like Tesla. He went into the tunnels, walking through the platforms on the upper and lower levels.
It was a lot of work, but it paid off.
Circling Platform 36, Ozan saw a gray lump against the back side of a pillar, facing away from the platform. A faint glow emanated from it. He stopped, trying to figure out what it was. The uneven contours made it look like a long, low boulder, but that didn’t make sense.
He moved closer, finally able to discern a knob on one end that resembled a head, and suddenly it made sense — someone was hidden underneath a blanket. Clever and cheap camouflage. The person leaned against the far side of the pillar, so that he would not be visible from the platform itself. Only someone coming from the other side or people in a passing train would see him. He bet it was Tesla, sitting there like a kid reading stories with a flashlight under the covers.
Ozan watched him, savoring the moment. Wouldn’t Tesla be surprised when he yanked off the blanket and put one right between his eyes?
Chapter 25
Stalling, Joe fussed with his Wi-Fi booster under the blanket. He was comfortable breaking in to places electronically, but hated the idea of sneaking into an actual building. What if he got caught? Even if they didn’t arrest him, they’d most likely throw him into the street. But he didn’t see any other options. He’d just have to not get caught.
Edison sensed his disquiet and woke. He wagged his tail once (cyan) as if to check on him.
“I’m all good,” Joe lied.
The yellow fur ball snuggled closer to him. Joe tucked the blanket more securely around them both. They needed to stay hidden.
A quick search told Joe that the Office of Chief Medical Examiner for New York City was located at the corner of First Avenue and Thirtieth Street in Kips Bay, a neighborhood about a mile from his current location. If he could go outside, he’d be there in ten minutes, tops. He studied the modern square building — the Milton Helpern Institute of Forensic Medicine. It was blocky, a glass box rising several stories into the sky. Even looking at it made him nervous — too much exposure to the sky. He clenched his jaw. He’d have to go inside it.
Getting there was the challenge. A cab was out of the question.
If he couldn’t go outside, he’d have to make do with the underground. He pulled up an old map that he’d compiled from various scanned-in maps. It showed subway tunnels, train tunnels, steam tunnels, and sewage tunnels. They snaked under the city like a web of nerves sending signals throughout a vast brain.
To start, he could walk along the subway tunnel to the Thirty-Third Street Station (two threes flashed in his head — red and red again). After that, he’d have to switch to a different tunnel.
Sewage tunnels ran practically everywhere, hundreds of miles’ worth. The map showed a sewage outfall at the end of Thirtieth Street that pumped treated sewage straight into the East River. That tunnel ran right under his destination and was probably big enough to walk through. Not his first choice, but it might work.
He studied the network of steam tunnels that crisscrossed under the city. He’d read that the steam tunnels stretched more than one hundred miles. Built more than a century ago, some of those steam pipes still carried heat and power to New York homes and businesses. They had been built with walkable tunnels, because the active pipes needed regular servicing.
Tunnels ran back and forth like a maze, and the first few trails he traced ended in dead-ends. He’d best start at the end and work backward. He scrolled to the street corner that housed the Milton Helpern building.
He zoomed in on that city block until the tunnels dissolved into pixels, then back out, finally finding what he sought. A narrow tunnel ran right under the medical examiner’s building, and a bracket indicated that the tunnel exited inside, probably for maintenance. A quick scroll back showed that it was linked to the Thirty-Third Street station via two tunnels.