contrite. ‘I wanted to apologize for the mess. Caddy couldn’t come in yesterday.’ Caddy was their housekeeper.
‘It’s good to be back,’ she said. ‘Working?’
‘I’m stuck here. Can’t get away.’
‘I’ve missed you.’
‘Don’t clean up the house.’
‘I haven’t. Not much.’
‘Did you read the print-outs?’
‘Yes. They were hidden on the counter.’
‘I wanted you to read them in the morning with coffee, when you’re at your sharpest. I should have more solid news by then. I’ll be back by eleven tomorrow. Don’t go to the lab right away.’
‘I’ll wait for you,’ she said.
‘You sound beat. Long flight?’
‘Bad air,’ she said. ‘I got a nosebleed.’
‘Poor Mädchen,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine now that you’re here. Did Lado …?’ He let the sentence tail off.
‘Not a clue,’ Kaye lied. ‘I did my best.’
‘I know. Sleep snug and I’ll make it up to you. There’s going to be stunning news.’
‘You’ve heard more. Tell me,’ Kaye said.
‘Not yet. Anticipation is its own joy.’
Kaye hated games. ‘Saul –’
‘I am adamant. Besides, I haven’t got all the confirmation I need. I love you. I miss you.’ He made a kiss sound good night, and after multiple good-byes, they broke the connection simultaneously, an old habit. Saul was sensitive about being last on the line.
Kaye looked around the kitchen, wrapped a dishrag around her hand, and began to clean up. She did not want to wait for Caddy. After straightening to her satisfaction, she showered, washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel, put on her favorite rayon pajamas, and built a fire in the upstairs bedroom fireplace. Then she squatted in a lotus on the end of the bed, letting the bright flames and the soft smoothness of the rayon reassure her.
Outside, the wind rose and she saw a single flash behind the lace curtains. The weather was turning rough.
Kaye climbed into bed and pulled the down comforter up under her neck. ‘At least I’m not feeling sorry for myself anymore,’ she said in a bold voice. Crickson joined her, parading his fluffy orange tail across the bed. Temin leaped up as well, more dignified, though a little damp. He condescended to be rubbed down with her towel.
For the first time since Mount Kazbeg, she felt safe and balanced. Poor little girl, she accused. Waiting for her husband to return. Waiting for her real husband to return.
Mark Augustine stood before the window of his small hotel room, holding a late night bourbon and water on the rocks, and listened to Dicken’s report.
Augustine was a compact and efficient man with smiling brown eyes, a firmly rooted head of concentrated gray hair, a small but jutting nose, and expressive lips. His skin was permanently sun-browned from years spent in equatorial Africa, and from his years in Atlanta, his voice was soft and melodious. He was a tough and resourceful man, adept at politicking, as befitted a director, and it was said by many at the CDC that he was being groomed to be the next Surgeon General.
When Dicken finished, Augustine put down his drink. ‘Ver-r-r-r-ry inter-esting,’ he said in an Artie Johnson voice. ‘Amazing work, Christopher.’
Christopher smiled, but waited for the long assessment.
‘It fits with most of what we know. I’ve spoken with the SG,’ Augustine continued. ‘She thinks we’re going to have to go public in small steps, and soon. I agree. First, we’ll let the scientists have their fun, cloak it in a little romance. You know, tiny invaders from inside our own bodies, gee, isn’t it fascinating, we don’t know what they can do. That sort of thing. Doel and Davison in California can outline their discovery and do that for us. They’ve been working hard enough. They certainly deserve some glory.’ Augustine again lifted the glass of whiskey and twirled the ice and water with a quiet tinkle. ‘Did Dr Mahy say when they can get your samples analyzed?’
‘No,’ Dicken said.
Augustine smiled sympathetically. ‘You would rather have followed them to Atlanta.’
‘I’d rather have flown them there myself and done the work,’ Dicken said.
‘I’m going to Washington Thursday,’ Augustine said. ‘I’m backing up the Surgeon General before Congress. NIH could be there. We aren’t bringing in the secretary of HHS yet. I want you with me. I’ll tell Francis and Jon to put out their press release tomorrow morning. It’s been ready for a week.’
Dicken admired this with a private, slightly ironic smile. HHS – Health and Human Services – was the huge branch of government that oversaw the NIH – the National Institutes of Health – which in turn oversaw the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. ‘A well-oiled machine,’ he said.
Augustine took this as a compliment. ‘We’ve still got our heads buried up our asses. We’ve riled Congress with our stance on tobacco and firearms. The bastards in Washington decide we’re a big fat target. They cut our funding by a third to help pay for a new tax cut. Now a big one comes and it’s not out of Africa or the rain forest. It has nothing to do with our little rape of mother nature. It’s a fluke, and it comes from inside our own blessed little bodies.’ Augustine’s smile turned wolfish. ‘It makes my hair prickle, Christopher. This is a godsend. We have to present this with timing, with drama. If we don’t do this right, there’s a real danger no one in Washington will pay attention until we lose an entire generation of babies.’
Dicken wondered how he could contribute to this runaway train. There had to be some way he could promote his fieldwork, all those years tracking boojums. ‘I’ve been thinking about a mutation angle,’ he said, his mouth dry. He laid out the stories of mutated babies he had heard in Ukraine, and outlined some of his theory of radiation-induced release of HERV.
Augustine narrowed his eyelids and shook his head. ‘We know about birth defects from Chernobyl. No news in that,’ he murmured. ‘But there’s no radiation here. It doesn’t gel, Christopher.’ He opened the room’s window and the noise of traffic ten floors below grew. Breeze puffed the inner white curtains.
Dicken persisted, trying to salvage his argument, at the same time aware that his evidence was woefully inadequate. ‘There’s a strong possibility that Herod’s does more than cause miscarriages. It seems to pop up in comparatively isolated populations. It’s been active at least since the 1960s. The political response has often been extreme. Nobody would wipe out a village or kill dozens of mothers and fathers and their unborn children, just because of a local run of miscarriages.’
Augustine shrugged. ‘Much too vague,’ he
