“I don’t know, Peyton. Bringing a patient with an unidentified, deadly, infectious disease back to the US? If word gets out, the press will scare the daylights out of everybody.”
“It could also save his life. And we could bring back blood, saliva, and tissue samples from anyone else who’s infected. We could test them here, in our BSL-4. It keeps the samples and testing out of Nairobi, and it enables the Kenyans to keep the outbreak quiet—which I know they’ll want to do. We get to potentially save a life and get a huge head start on figuring out what we’re dealing with.”
Elliott nodded and exhaled deeply. “All right, but I’ll have to get the director’s approval—he’ll have to deal with the fallout and the press if it goes wrong. But I’ll give it my full support.”
“Thanks.”
“What about the other American?” Elliott asked.
“That’s a tougher case. He was already in critical condition when he arrived in Mandera, and I don’t favor flying him back to the US—we’re talking roughly eighteen hours in the air, maybe more. He could die in transit. Beating the infection may be his only chance. I want to take some ZMapp with us.”
ZMapp was the only available treatment for Ebola; it had been successful in treating several physicians who contracted the disease in 2014, but had yet to undergo human clinical trials. Its effects were largely unknown.
Elliott nodded. “You want me to get the legal guardians’ consent to treat?”
“Please. The patients may be in no shape to give informed consent.”
“I’ll work on contacting the guardians.” Elliott glanced at the papers strewn about her desk. “You selected your team yet?”
“Just about,” Peyton said. “You ready for the conference?”
“No amount of coffee could make me ready for that.”
Chapter 6
As he walked across the marble-floored lobby, Desmond realized why the police officers were looking at him: because he was looking at them. The natural human reaction was to look back at someone staring at you, and the instinct seemed more honed in those drawn to law enforcement. Such individuals had almost a sixth sense about predators and threats.
Despite her stoic demeanor in the elevator, the white-haired woman was quite frail. She shuffled slowly across the lobby, breathing heavily.
Desmond averted his eyes from the police, stepped aside, and power-walked past her. She was moving away from the revolving glass door, toward a swinging door with a silver bar straight across it. The bellhop was scanning the board of keys, oblivious to his oncoming guest.
Desmond swung the door open and stood in the cool November air, holding it for the lady, facing away, not eyeing her as she slowly approached.
“Vielen dank,” she whispered as she passed.
He opened the door to a cab for her, then slid into the next one in line.
The police were still inside, but the radio chatter on the security channel was feverish now; they would send someone to look for Gerhardt soon. When they did, they would find the four bodies, only three of which were alive.
In German, the driver asked for a destination, which told Desmond that the hotel was not the haunt of foreign tourists or business travelers, but rather of native Germans. It was yet another clue, another piece that might reveal who he was and why he was in Berlin.
Desmond almost answered, Bahnhof—train station—but stopped himself. When the fallen police officers and dead man were found, a citywide search would ensue. Security would be intensified at the train stations and airports, and possibly along the highways and rivers as well.
He needed to think. He needed to know more about what was happening. The answers might still be in Berlin.
In German, he told the man to just drive.
The car didn’t move. In the rearview mirror, the middle-aged man scrutinized his passenger. In English, he said, “I need a destination.”
“Please, just drive. I’ve had a fight with my girlfriend, and I need to get out for a while. I want to see the city.”
Desmond exhaled when the driver punched the meter and pulled away from the hotel.
Now the question became where to go. His first priority was clear: to get off the streets of Berlin. The police clearly didn’t have his description when they were sent to the hotel—the officers in the lobby didn’t recognize him. Apparently it was just as the security guard had said: an anonymous tip about a disturbance in his hotel room. But who had called it in? Had they wanted to check on Gunter Thorne—the dead man? Or had his death been loud enough to alarm a nearby guest who called the police instead of hotel security?
As he rode through the streets of Berlin, a memory came to Desmond, of walking in a warehouse, his footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. Metal rafters hung high above, and the aisle was lined with cubicles enclosed in milky-white sheet plastic. He could hear the faint, rhythmic beeping of EKGs and could just make out hospital beds inside the isolated cubes. Plastic bags filled with clear liquid hung beside the patients, who appeared to be of all races, genders, and ages. Why were they here, in this makeshift hospital?
Workers in containment suits shuffled in and out of the patient cubicles. Up ahead a cart was stacked with black body bags. Two workers carried another bag out of a cubicle and tossed it on the heap.
Desmond was wearing one of the suits too. It was warm inside. He hated the sensation of being enclosed; he couldn’t wait to rip it off.
The memory shifted, and he was standing in an office with plate glass windows that looked down on the rows of plastic-wrapped cubicles. The room was crowded with people, their backs turned to him, all facing a large screen with a world map. Red dots marked major cities. Arced lines spread across the screen, connecting the dots, representing flights between the cities. A man with scars on his face and long blond hair stood before them, speaking slowly.