Are viral weapons that dangerous?
If you alter a few genes, make it just a little more contagious, raise the kill ratio, youd end up with a devastating strain. The research alone is hazardous. A single slip-up in lab security and you could have millions of people accidentally infected. And no means of treatment. Its the kind of worldwide disaster a scientist doesnt want to think about.
Armageddon.
He nodded, his gaze frighteningly sane. If you believe in such a thing. Thats exactly what itd be.
She shook her head. I dont understand why these things are allowed.
They arent. By international agreement, theyre outlawed. But theres always some madman lurking in the shadows who wants that extra bit of leverage, that weapon no one else has.
A madman. Thats what one would have to be, to even think of unleashing such a weapon on the world. She thought of a novel shed read, about just such a plague, how the cities had lain dead and decaying, how the very air had turned poisonous. But those were only the nightmares of science fiction. This was real.
From somewhere in the building came the sound of whistling.
Cathy and Victor both sat up straight. The melody traveled along the hall, closer and closer, until it stopped right outside Hickeys door. They heard a rustling, then the slap of magazines hitting the floor.
Its here! said Cathy, leaping to her feet.
Victor was right behind her as she hurried into the front room. She spotted it immediately, sitting atop the pile: a padded envelope, addressed in her handwriting. She scooped it up and ripped the envelope open. Out slid the roll of film. The note shed scribbled to Hickey fluttered to the floor. Grinning in triumph, she held up the canister. Heres your evidence!
We hope. Lets see what weve got on the roll. Wheres the darkroom?
Next to the dressing room. She handed him the film. Do you know how to process it?
Ive done some amateur photography. As long as Ive got the chemicals I can- He stopped and glanced over at the desk.
The phone was ringing.
Victor shook his head. Ignore it, he said and turned for the darkroom.
Victor shook his head. Ignore it, he said and turned for the darkroom.
As they left the reception room, they heard the answering machine click on. Hickeys voice, smooth as silk, spoke on the recording. This is the studio of Hickman Von Trapp, specializing in tasteful and artistic images of the female form
Victor laughed. Tasteful?
It depends on your taste, said Cathy as she followed him up the hall.
They had just reached the darkroom when the recording ended and was followed by the message beep. An agitated voice rattled from the speaker. Hello? Hello, Cathy? If youre there, answer me, will you? Theres an FBI agent looking for you-some guy named Polowski-
Cathy stopped dead. Its Jack! she said, turning to retrace her steps toward the front room.
The voice on the speaker had taken on a note of panic. I couldnt help it-he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!
The message clicked off just as Cathy grabbed the receiver. Hello? Jack?
She heard only the dial tone. Hed already hung up. Hands shaking, she began to punch in Jacks phone number.
Theres no time! said Victor.
I have to talk to him-
He grabbed the receiver and slammed it down. Later! We have to get out of here!
She nodded numbly and started for the door. There she halted. Wait. We need money! She turned back to the reception desk and searched the drawers until she found the petty cash box. Twenty-two dollars was all it contained. Always keep just enough for decent coffee beans, Hickey used to say. She pocketed the money. Then she reached up and yanked one of Hickeys old raincoats from the door hook. He wouldnt miss it. And she might need it for concealment. Okay, she said, slipping on the coat. Lets go.
They paused only a second to check the corridor. From another suite came the faint echo of laughter. Somewhere above, high heels clicked across a wooden floor. With Victor in the lead, they darted down the hall and out the front door.
The midday sun seemed to glare down on them like an accusing eye. Quickly they fell into step with the rest of the lunch crowd, the businessmen and artists, the Union Street chic. No one glanced their way. But even with people all around her, Cathy felt conspicuous. As though, in this bright cityscape of crowds and concrete, she was the focus of the painters eye.
She huddled deeper into the raincoat, wishing it were a mantle of invisibility. Victor had quickened his pace, and she had to run to keep up.
Where do we go now? she whispered.
Weve got the film. Now I say we head for the bus station.
And then?
Anywhere. He kept his gaze straight ahead. As long as its out of this city.
CHAPTER SEVEN
That pesky FBI agent was ringing his doorbell again.
Sighing, Jack opened the front door. Back already?
Damn right Im back. Polowski stamped in and shoved the door closed behind him. I want to know where to find em next.
I told you, Mr. Polowski. Over on Union Street theres a studio owned by Mr. Hickman-
Ive been to Von Whats-his-names studio.
Jack swallowed. You didnt find them?
You knew I wouldnt. You warned em, didnt you?
Really, I dont know why youre harrassing me. Ive tried to be-
They left in a hurry. The door was wide open. Food was still lying around. They left the empty cash box just sitting on the desk.
Jack drew himself up in outrage. Are you calling my ex-wife a petty thief?
Im calling her a desperate woman. And Im calling you an imbecile for screwing things up. Now where is she?
I dont know.
Who would she turn to?
No one I know.
Think harder.
Jack stared down at Polowskis turgid face and marveled that any human being could be so unattractive. Surely the process of natural selection would have dictated against such unacceptable genes?
Jack shook his head. I honestly dont know.
It was the truth, and Polowski must have sensed it. After a moment of silent confrontation, he backed off. Then maybe you can tell me this. Why did you warn them?
It-it was- Jack shrugged helplessly. Oh, I dont know! After you left, I wasnt sure Id done the right thing. I wasnt sure whether to trust you. He doesnt trust you.
Who?
Victor Holland. He thinks youre in on some conspiracy. Frankly, the man struck me as just the slightest bit paranoid.
He has a right to be. Considering whats happened to him so far. Polowski turned for the door.
Now what happens?
I keep looking for them.
Where?
You think Id tell you? He stalked out. Dont leave town, Zuckerman, he snapped over his shoulder. Ill be back to see you later.
I dont think so, Jack muttered softly as he watched the other man lumber back to his car. He looked up and saw there wasnt a cloud in the sky. Smiling to himself, he shut the door.
It would be sunny in Mexico, as well.
Someone had left in a hurry.
Savitch strolled through the rooms of the photo studio, which had been left unlocked. He noted the scraps of a meal on the four-poster bed: crumbs of sourdough bread, part of a salami, an empty pickle jar. He also took note of the coffee cups: there were two of them. Interesting, since Savitch had spotted only one person leaving the studio, a squat little man in a polyester suit. The man hadnt been there long. Savitch had observed him climb into a dark green Ford parked at a fifteen-minute meter. The meter still had three minutes remaining.
Savitch continued his tour of the studio, eyeing the tawdry photos, wondering if this wasnt another waste of his time. After all, every other address hed pulled from the womans black book had turned up no sign of her. Why should Hickman Von Trapps address be any different?
Still, he couldnt shake the instinct that he was getting close. Clues were everywhere. He read them, put them together. Today, this studio had been visited by two hungry people. Theyd entered through a broken window in the dressing room. Theyd eaten scraps taken from the refrigerator. They (or the man in the polyester suit) had emptied the petty cash box.
Savitch completed his tour and returned to the front room. Thats when he noticed the telephone message machine blinking on and off.
He pressed the play button. The string of messages seemed endless. The calls were for someone named Hickey-no doubt the Hickman Von Trapp of the address book. Savitch lazily circled the room, half listening to the succession of voices. Business calls for the most part, inquiring about appointments, asking when proofs would be ready and would he like to do the shoot for Snoop magazine? Near the door, Savitch halted and stooped down to sift through the pile of mail. It was boring stuff, all addressed to Von Trapp. Then he noticed, off to the side, a loose slip of paper. It was a note, addressed to Hickey.
Feel awful about this, but someone stole all those rolls of film from my car. This was the only one left. Thought Id get it to you before its lost, as well. Hope its enough to save your shoot from being a complete waste-
It was signed Cathy.
He stood up straight. Catherine Weaver? It had to be! The roll of film-where the hell was the roll of film?
He rifled through the mail, searching, searching. He turned up only a torn envelope with Cathy Weavers return address. The film was gone. In frustration, he began to fling magazines across the room. Then, in mid-toss, he froze.
A new message was playing on the recorder.
Hello? Hello, Cathy? If youre there, answer me, will you? Theres an FBI agent looking for you-some guy named Polowski. I couldnt help it-he made me tell him about Hickey. Get out of there now!
Savitch stalked over to the answering machine and stared down as the mechanism automatically whirred back to the beginning. He replayed it.
Get out of there now!
There was now no doubt. Catherine Weaver had been here, and Victor Holland was with her. But who was this agent Polowski and why was he searching for Holland? Savitch had been assured that the Bureau was off the case. He would have to check into the matter.
He crossed over to the window and stared out at the bright sunshine, the crowded sidewalks. So many faces, so many strangers. Where, in this city, would two ter rified fugitives hide? Finding them would be difficult, but not impossible.