The Cobra Event (17 page)

She went to the ladies’ room and looked into a mirror over the sink, afraid that she would see something in her eyes. Her eyes stared back at her, gray-blue. There was no change of color. No pupillary ring.

DR. NATHANSON LIVED
on the Upper East Side in the Fifties. Austen took a taxi there, and in five minutes she was at the door of his apartment. His wife, Cora, answered the bell. “Oh, yes, you’re the doctor from the C.D.C.,” she said. “Come in.”

Nathanson had a small office in the apartment. The desk was piled with papers. On the shelves were works of philosophy and medicine. The room smelled of cigars. He shut the door.

She said: “I’ve found the source.”

“I’m not sure I follow you.”

“The source. The cause of death. It’s a human being. This isn’t a natural outbreak. This is the work of a killer.”

There was a long pause. In a careful voice, Nathanson said, “What makes you think so?”

On his desk she placed the orange-and-red plastic biohazard bags that held the tea can and Harmonica Man’s box.

“I have found two devices. They are biological dispersion devices—bombs, Dr. Nathanson, I found one in Harmonica Man’s clothing. I found the other in Kate Moran’s bedroom. Penny Zecker was a junk dealer. She sold the device to Kate. Her notebook indicates that somebody traded the box with her for some postcards. That somebody is a murderer.”

She placed her laptop computer on his desk and turned it on. “Look at these images.”

The chief bent over to stare at her photograph of the Zecker-Moran box.

“This is the device that infected Penny Zecker. She sold it to Kate Moran.” Then Austen held up one of the plastic biohazard bags. “There’s the other device—you can see it in here. It’s the device that ended up with Harmonica Man. I think someone may have given it to him in the subway. These boxes are designed to release a small amount of dust into the air when the lid pops open. I think the dust is a dried biological agent. It may be crystallized virus particles, I’m not sure.”

Nathanson said nothing for a long time, staring at the boxes. He picked up the plastic bag, and looked through the plastic at the box inside, at the painted crystal, the featureless gray wood. Suddenly he seemed like an old man. He put down the bag. “This is criminal evidence. You should have left it where you found it.”

“I—I guess I wasn’t thinking about evidence. This is a bomb. I wanted to get it out of there.”

“You’ve been exposed.”

“So have Glenn Dudley and Ben Kly. You, too. You were present at the Moran autopsy.”

“Jesus! They’re doing the teacher now!”

“What?”

“The art teacher. He was killed on the subway tracks.”

“Oh, my God. How?”

“We don’t know what happened. I tried to reach you. Your phone wasn’t working. I called Glenn and asked him to come in. He’s in the autopsy room now with Kly.”

Nathanson called over to the O.C.M.E. and reached a morgue attendant, and asked him to get Dudley on the phone. Soon the man came back, saying that Dr. Dudley was busy and would call later.

Knife

O.C.M.E. MORGUE

GLENN DUDLEY AND KLY
were alone in the Pit when Austen arrived there, out of breath. She stopped at the door of the main autopsy room and cried out to them. “Wait! The body is infected with a hot agent.”

Ben Kly took a step backward.

“It’s very dangerous, Dr. Dudley,” Austen said.

“Then get yourself suited up before you come in here,” he replied. “Note my findings.” His gloved finger pointed at Talides’s head. “The facial skin is cratered with blackened pits in the jumping-arc pattern we observe in subway electrocutions. The eyes remain open, milky due to heating. The right temple bulges outward, where we see a cracked-oyster fracture, and here we see traces of cooked brain material spilling out. The smell of cooked brain is distinctive. Why can’t I smell it?” Now he looked up at her. His nose was running with a clear mucus, which was flowing over his breathing mask.

“
Ben
,” she said, backing away.

Kly had been holding the stock jar. He looked at Dudley and the jar dropped from his hands and broke on the floor with a crash.

The sound of the breaking glass may have upset Dudley. A jacksonian twitch rippled across his face. He grunted and opened his mouth. He sighed.

Dudley raised his prosector’s knife, hefting it in an expert hand. He turned toward Austen and sighted along the blade, looking at her with shining, alert eyes.

The blade was honed carbon steel, more than two feet long, sharpened to the cutting edge of a straight razor, with a wooden grip. It was a weapon of real power, held in the hand of a man who knew how to use it. It was slick with infective blood.

Austen moved backward, keeping her eyes on the blade. Very slowly she raised her hands to protect her neck and face. “Dr. Dudley, please put the knife down. Please,” she said.

Slowly, gently, Dudley moved the knife toward her. She screamed and jumped back, and the knife passed under her arm. He was playing with her, it seemed.

“Over here!” Kly said.

Dudley turned and faced Kly.

“Go!” Kly hissed to her.

She did not move. She picked up a pair of lopping shears, but Dudley spun around and tapped the shears away with his blade. It made a tiny
clink
.

Dudley turned and moved toward Kly, who backed up, keeping his eyes on Dudley’s face, talking to him. “Calm down, Doctor. Put the knife down. It’s all right, Doctor. Let’s pray together, Doctor.”

Dudley backed him into a corner. Kly had nowhere to go.

“Let’s not pray,” Dudley said, as he swung the knife with all his strength. It passed through Kly’s neck with a wet sound, almost beheading him.

An arterial jet from his neck hit the ceiling. His head flopped over sideways, the muscles cut. He went down with a slumping sound.

Austen ran out of the room, shouting.

DUDLEY LOOKED DOWN
at Kly, then looked around calmly. His neck arched. His back curved and swayed. The basal writhing intensified. He went over to a supply table and picked up a sterile scalpel blade in a wrapper. He stripped off the wrapper and fitted the little scalpel blade into a handle. He reached above his left ear with the scalpel and poked it into his skin until the tip touched bone, then drew the blade swiftly over the crown of his head, making a coronal incision from ear to ear, the blade tip bumping against the hard bone of his calvarium. He poked the scalpel into his thigh and left it quivering in the muscle—the muscle being a convenient sticking place for the scalpel. With both hands, he reached up and grasped the flap of skin that had opened across his head. He tugged it forward sharply. There was a tearing sound. He pulled his scalp off his skull and turned it inside out. He kept going—expertly, he pulled his face off his cranium. His eyes sagged as he pulled. His scalp fell down over his face inside out, like a slippery red blanket, the dome of his calvarium ivory-colored and red and wet, his hair draped in a fringe down over his mouth. His lips moved behind his hair. He screamed. He was eating his scalp. There was no seizure at the end.

Part Four

D
ECISION

Masaccio

THE JACOB K. JAVITS FEDERAL BUILDING
at 26 Federal Plaza in lower Manhattan sits along Broadway, overlooking a complex of courthouses and city government buildings around Foley Square, with a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. The Federal Building is faced with dark gray stone. It has smoked windows. The offices inside include the New York field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, which is the largest F.B.I. office in the United States, except for F.B.I. headquarters in Washington. Eighteen hundred special agents and staffers work out of the New York office. It occupies eight floors of the Federal Building.

Alice Austen and the chief medical examiner of New York City entered a darkened conference room on the twenty-sixth floor. The room was full of desks arranged in concentric half-circles, facing a bank of video display screens. It was the Command Center of the New York field office. Various agents and managers and technical people were standing around or sitting at the desks, and there was an unmistakable scent of sour law-enforcement coffee in the air.

A stocky man in his forties came over to them. He had curly brown hair and dark intelligent eyes. He wore a blue oxford shirt under a gray V-neck sweater vest, and khaki pants and L.L. Bean loafers. He had an ample gut.

“Hello, Lex,” he said, and he shook Austen’s hand. “Frank Masaccio. I’m glad to meet you, Doctor. We’ll talk in my office.”

As they walked out of the Command Center, Masaccio gestured to the video screens. “We’re just wrapping up a bust. Insurance fraud.” He shook his head. “Some of the suspects are doing the fake-heart-attack routine. Half the cardiac-care units in this city have organized-crime figures dying in them as we speak. Drives us nuts.”

Frank Masaccio was the head of the New York field office and an assistant director of the F.B.I. When they got to his office, three floors above, he said to them, “All right, run this by me again.”

Nathanson’s voice was shaky. “My deputy is dead, infected with something in the autopsy room. He killed our best morgue attendant with a knife, and then he killed himself in a way that is difficult to describe.”

Austen placed her laptop computer on a coffee table. “Something seems to be causing people to attack themselves or others. We’ve had six deaths, and it looks like someone is planting the agent in a premeditated way.”

Masaccio said nothing. He got up and crossed the room and sat down on the couch in front of her computer, so that he could see the screen, and he gave her a sharp look. “The first question I’m asking, is this F.B.I. jurisdiction?”

“This is murder,” she said. She was met with a neutral gaze that was impossible to read as she began to summarize what had happened, what she had found.

Masaccio listened without comment, then suddenly put up one hand. “Hold on. Have you notified anybody at C.D.C.?”

“Not yet,” Nathanson said.

“I want to do a dial-up with C.D.C.,” Masaccio said. He went over to his desk. Without sitting down, he tapped the keys of his computer, and stared at a list of numbers and names. “Here’s our contact in Atlanta.” He punched up a telephone number and then tapped in a string of digits with one finger. “Skypager.”

Within two minutes, the phone rang back. Masaccio put the call on his speakerphone and said, “Is this Dr. Walter Mellis? Frank Masaccio here. I’m the director of the New York field office of the F.B.I. I don’t know if we’ve ever met. I’m sorry to bother you on a Saturday. We have a little problem. Where are you right now?”

“I’m at my golf course. In the clubhouse,” Mellis said. They could hear him breathing hard. It sounded as if he had run for a telephone.

“Walt? It’s Alice Austen.”

“Alice! What’s going on?”

There was some confusion for a moment about who knew whom, but Walter Mellis quickly explained things to Masaccio.

“Dr. Mellis, it looks like we may be in the middle of a—biological event of some kind,” Masaccio said. “Your researcher seems to have uncovered something.”

“Wait—what’s Walt’s involvement?” Austen said.

“He’s a consultant to one of our special units. It’s called Reachdeep,” Masaccio said. He explained that Reachdeep was a classified operation, and that he would arrange for her to have security clearance.

Austen wasn’t sure she grasped what was going on.

“Reachdeep is a special forensic unit of the Bureau,” Masaccio said. “It deals with nuclear, chemical, and biological terrorism. Dr. Mellis here is the C.D.C. contact for Reachdeep. He’s a consultant for us.”

“Were you in on this?” Austen asked Lex Nathanson.

Nathanson was embarrassed. “Walt has involved me a bit,” he said.

“So he lined you up, Lex?” Masaccio said.

“He asked me to watch for unusual cases. This one seemed unusual.”

Austen was annoyed about being deceived, but she tried to calm herself down. She described to Masaccio in greater detail what she had found, speaking carefully. He interrupted her occasionally to ask questions. She found that she did not have to explain anything twice to him.

“Why did Dr. Dudley become so violent?” Masaccio asked. “That high school kid didn’t.”

“The agent seems to exaggerate underlying aggression,” Austen answered. “Kate Moran was a peaceful person, and she bit her lips. Glenn Dudley was—”

“Very unhappy,” Nathanson filled in, “to begin with.”

“It’s doing damage to primitive parts of the brain,” Austen said. “If this is an infectious agent, it is one of the most dangerous infective organisms I’ve ever seen or heard of.”

Masaccio shot a look at Austen. “
How
infective? A lot or a little?”

He is asking the right questions, she thought. “The blistering process in the mouth and nose is an important detail, and it’s particularly frightening,” she said. “You get blistering with very infective agents like smallpox or measles. The agent is
not
as contagious as the influenza virus. But it is more contagious than the AIDS virus. I would guess it’s about as infective as the common cold. It actually starts like a common cold, but then it invades the nervous system.”

“So what is the bug?” Masaccio asked.

“Unknown,” Austen said.

“This has to be federal jurisdiction,” Lex Nathanson broke in. “The City of New York can’t possibly handle this.”

“All right,” Masaccio said. “What we have is an apparent series of homicides using an unknown biological agent. That’s covered under Title 18 of the federal code. That’s ours. That’s F.B.I. jurisdiction. Can the C.D.C. identify this thing for us?”

“It could be difficult,” Mellis said.

“What about a cure?”

“Cure?” Mellis said. “How can we cure something if we don’t know what it is, Mr. Masaccio? If it’s a virus, there’s probably no cure. Most viruses are untreatable and incurable. Usually the only defense against a virus is a protective vaccine. It takes years of research, and maybe a hundred million dollars, to invent a vaccine for a new virus. We still don’t have a vaccine for AIDS.”

Masaccio said, “Okay, but how long will it take to identify this?”

Mellis answered on the speakerphone, “Weeks to months.” Masaccio stared at the speakerphone as if he were trying to burn a hole in it with his eyes. “We have hours to days to deal with this.” He turned. “So—tell me what you
think
the virus is, Dr. Austen.”

“I don’t know what it is. We’re not even sure it’s a virus.”

There was a silence, and then Masaccio said, “I have the impression that there’s a lot on your mind you’re not telling me, Dr. Austen.”

“I don’t have much evidence.”

“Bullshit. You pulled off a very complex criminal investigation with no backup. Are there any cops in your family? Is your dad a cop, by any chance?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Come
on
,” he said, coaxing her.

“My father, yes. He’s a retired chief of police, but what difference does that make?”

Masaccio chuckled, delighted with himself. “All right, now—good cops work their hunches. Tell me your hunches. One cop to another.”

“It’s a virus,” she said. “It spreads like the common cold: by contact with tiny droplets of mucus floating in the air or touching the eyelids, or by contact with infective blood. It can be dried into a powder and it can get into the air, so it may also be infective through the lungs. It’s neuroinvasive—that means it travels along the nerve fibers and invades the central nervous system. It replicates in the brain. It amplifies explosively in the brain. It kills in about two days, so it has a very fast replication phase, as fast as anything I’ve ever seen. The virus makes crystals in brain cells. The crystals form in the center of the cell, in the cell’s nucleus. It damages the brain stem, the areas that control emotion and violence and feeding. The virus causes people to attack themselves and to eat their own flesh. It is not…natural.”

“This is wild speculation,” Mellis said.

“Come on, Walt, you started it when you talked to me about stealth viruses,” Austen said.

“I’m thinking about the Unsub,” Masaccio said. Unsub is Bureau jargon for “Unknown Subject”—the unknown perpetrator of the crime. “Is this a group or a loner?” Nobody could answer his questions.

“Dr. Austen, one thing I have to ask: are you personally contagious?”

“Please don’t take me off this case.”

Masaccio grunted. “Hm…so we could go postal if we’ve been chatting with you? What a thought.” He rolled a large gold class ring on his finger and made a sucking sound with his teeth. He stood up and crossed to the window, which looked north, toward midtown and the Empire State Building. He put his hands in his pockets. “Self-cannibalism, spreading through New York like the common cold.” He turned around and faced them. “I don’t have a single goddamned space suit in this office!”

“The fire department has protective suits,” Lex Nathanson said.

“So what can the New York City Fire Department do with a brain virus, Lex? Pour some water on it?”

“I have to inform the director of C.D.C.,” Mellis said.

Frank Masaccio hung up, then turned toward Nathanson and Austen. “I’m taking this to our National Security Division. The head of the N.S.D. is a guy named Steven Wyzinski.” He punched up another string of numbers. Wyzinski returned the call immediately, and they spoke quietly for a minute or two.

“Steve wants to do a S
IOC
calldown,” Masaccio said. “Can anyone tell me why bad things always happen on Saturday night? You can’t find anybody in Washington on a Saturday night.”

“What is a—calldown?” Austen asked.

“A S
IOC
calldown.” He pronouced it
Sy-ock
. “That’s a meeting of experts and federal people at F.B.I. headquarters. S
IOC
means Strategic—ah—Strategic—huh. Jesus, I can’t remember. Alzheimer’s must be setting in. It’s the F.B.I.’s command center in Washington. You’ll go. Lex and I are going to stay here in New York and get the ball rolling locally. The mayor’s office has to be brought into this. I’m going to start lining up a joint task force with the police department—that’s an asset. The fire department could be an asset—I’m trying to see the end of this…”

Austen watched him. What she saw was a very bright man working out the opening moves of a chess defense. The problem was that the unknown opponent was in control of the game.

Archimedes

SATURDAY AFTERNOON, APRIL
25

ARCHIMEDES OF SYRACUSE
, the great mathematician and weaponeer who died in 212
B.C
., designed glass lenses or mirrors that focused sunlight on enemy ships and set them on fire. He understood the principle of the lever and the fulcrum, the idea that one can place a long lever on a fulcrum and use it to move a giant mass. “Give me only a place to stand, and I can move the world,” Archimedes said.

Archimedes liked to ride the subway. He could ride for hours, thinking about things, planning. He sat in the cars looking at people from behind his metal-framed eyeglasses, a faint smile playing across his face now and again. He was a prematurely balding man of medium height. Usually he wore a tan cotton shirt and loose, natural-fiber trousers, and sneakers made of canvas and rubber. The clothes were simple but actually quite expensive. He had reasonably friendly feelings toward most people, and it made him feel bad that some of them would have to go.

The subway was the bloodstream of the city, with connections that ran everywhere. Archimedes liked to study connections. He stood on a platform in Times Square, watching the trains go by. Then he took the shuttle across midtown Manhattan to Grand Central Terminal. He walked briskly through the station, moving among the crowds, listening to their footsteps, looking at the golden constellations overhead in the vaulted space, beautiful Orion the Hunter. He thought of the tracks that go out of Grand Central into the world. People were always talking about viruses from the rain forest that would find their way to modern cities and infect the inhabitants. But it works the other way around, too, he thought. Diseases that emerge from New York City can spread out and reach the humans who live in the rain forest. There are more connections from New York City to the rest of the world than from any other city on earth. Something can explode from here to go everywhere on the planet.

He walked west a few blocks to the New York Public Library, and he circled around it and sat down on a bench in Bryant Park, among lawns and London plane trees and, of course, people. Too many of them. He sat on a bench and watched them pass before his eyes, the temporary biological creatures whose lives would not be remembered and who would vanish in the reach of deep time. He looked up at the library, the repository of human knowledge. They are not going to understand my optimism and my hope, he thought. But I think we can be saved. I hold the lever in my hands.

Dash

SUNDAY, APRIL
26

BEFORE DAWN
, a New York City police car took Alice Austen from Kips Bay to the East Side Heliport at Thirty-fourth Street. It parked near the landing platform as a Bell turbo helicopter operated by the F.B.I. came down the East River at full power. The helicopter drew up sharply and landed on the platform. Austen ran for it.