Upon A Pale Horse

FORTY-FIVE Damage Control

Thorn was badly shaken from his round-the-clock meetings in Langley, and it was all he could do to manage a quick flight from Washington to New York to see Barker in person in the wee hours of the morning. As the brains behind the virus effort, Barker was the one who would need to understand the catastrophe that had taken place, and it was he who would have to take immediate action. Anything but a complete cancellation of the scheme was a guarantee of nuclear annihilation, and therefore suicide now. A perfect plan had been destroyed; and the worst part was, he wasn’t completely sure how.

Barker agreed to see him at his penthouse in Manhattan, and when Thorn arrived at six a.m. he was shown straight in. Thorn looked like he’d been beaten with a board; whereas Barker, in typical fashion, exuded the healthy glow of the mega-rich, their longevity assured by the best attention money could buy, their sleek, toned, and tucked features those of an elite race, elevated beyond the mere mortals who occupied the lowly gutters of the world. Most of the disparity had to do with the fact Thorn hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours, and that he’d fortified himself for the pre-dawn flight with a double brandy that was now making its residual presence known. Acid bile threatened to gag him as he sat across from Barker, who was sipping a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice and munching on pineapple chunks.

“Tell me what the hell happened,” he demanded, his voice low, the cook in the small service room off the kitchen and his housekeeper somewhere in the depths of the cavernous penthouse.

“I gave you as much detail as I had over the phone. It’s a disaster. Basically, every country we’ve spoken with, including our allies, is saying the same thing. If this virus is released, we’re going to be a glowing crater. Nobody’s buying that it’s all a big misunderstanding. The report is pretty clear that only a major technological and financial effort could have produced this virus. And frankly, the attached data sheets are sophisticated as anything anyone’s found. I don’t think we have any choice but to abort.”

Barker sighed, then nodded. “How? How did it leak?”

“Obviously the analyst had gotten hold of the data and made arrangements for the Pasteur scientists to analyze it. Even in death, the bastard managed to screw us.”

“Are we sure it was him?”

“There’s nobody else. Everyone in the group, in the program, you name it, is a hundred and ten percent loyal and trustworthy. Plus, no one of them had nearly all the data. No, this was a concerted effort, which I suppose we should have foreseen. It’s probably by the grace of God that we didn’t release the virus and then discover, too late, that every country with a nuke would launch in retaliation. Think about it. One more week and it would have been too late to stop this.”

“At great expense, I might add. We’ll have to destroy any flu vaccines we manufactured that contain the virus. But that’s fine. A sunk cost. We’ll invent some pretext to delay the flu shots a couple of weeks,” Barker said, thinking out loud.

A thought occurred to him, and he stared hard at Thorn. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks. I feel like it, too.”

“Could the brother have had anything to do with this?”

“No. We’ve been all over him. No chance.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive. But if you like, we can terminate him. Just for good measure.”

Barker cleared his throat, pensive. “Do you want some of my miracle coffee? You know how good it is.”

“I was hoping you’d offer.”

Barker pressed a small button on a wireless intercom on the table and spoke into it. “Two cups of java. You like cream and sugar?”

“Sure. Two sugars. A dollop of cream.”

“You heard him. My usual for me.” He released the button and gazed out at the Manhattan skyline, breathtaking from his lofty perch. “Eliminating the brother is closing the barn door, no? Sort of pointless now, I would think.”

“I’m just throwing possibilities out there.”

“I’d say it’s time to concentrate on salvaging what we can, and focus on the future. We have other options. Perhaps not as elegant or quite ready, but still, options. I won’t be denied the culmination of a life’s work by one setback. Tomorrow’s another day.” Barker shifted in his seat. “Run interference, ensure any investigation goes nowhere. You know what to do. If there’s a congressional hearing that we can’t quash, stonewall. The usual. Since nothing actually happened, I don’t think we’ll need a fall guy this go-round. In fact, you can probably twist the whole thing to the Agency’s advantage.”

“I’ll think of something.”

The coffee arrived, and the cook scuttled away after placing a silver serving tray on the table.

“I’m sure you will. Have no fear. This isn’t over. It’s just an intermission. A temporary glitch. A resilient man bounces back from his lowest low to hit an even higher high. Which we will,” Barker said.

Both men sipped their dark roast, marveling as always at the flavor profile, appreciation on both their faces as they contemplated the next inning, and what they would do differently next time.

Jeffrey waited outside the hotel for the taxi that would take him to the Charles de Gaulle airport. Then home, to Washington. Although he realized that nothing he had back there even resembled a home — his brother’s condo, a job that was a sham, a relationship that was a lie.

It had been ten days since Bertrand had sent the report to Kaycee, and Jeffrey had spoken with her a dozen times since then as she’d updated him on her progress. She’d succeeded in getting it to the Chinese and the Indians, and the French had slipped it to the Russians and the British. That had been more than a week ago.

Perhaps the most infuriating part had been the uncertainty — not knowing what the outcome would be, day after long day. Then, that morning, Bertrand had called with a piece of auspicious news. He’d heard from his contacts that the flu shot program scheduled for the following week had been postponed due to some process issues that would delay it for a month. Jeffrey wasn’t so sure, but Bertrand had assured him it was a win for them, and that the only conclusion they could reach was that enough pressure had been brought to bear so that those intent on destroying most of mankind had terminated their plan. In the meantime, the Frenchman was working round the clock to create an effective vaccine, putting the full weight of the Institute behind the effort.

If Bertrand was correct about the flu shot program being the dissemination mechanism, its delay was the best news Jeffrey had ever had in his life — and he had no reason to doubt the scientist. But a part of Jeffrey felt empty, hollow, like he’d won a pyrrhic victory.

He couldn’t account for the sentiment, but it was there, and very real. Perhaps it was because he was done with his new life and hadn’t yet decided what was next. Maybe it was his head injury, which had finally stopped hurting six days ago. Or maybe it was that he’d lost everything, and had nothing to hang onto.

Jeffrey had told the firm that he needed more time due to his injury, and the response had been polite but distant, as if they didn’t really care what he did. Which was fine by him — he’d hung around in Paris, ostensibly for the doctor, but in reality because he didn’t want to go back and face the shambles of his existence. And it had worked — Monica had seemed less and less interested when he called, which had gone from daily, to every couple, and on the last call she’d seemed as uninterested in talking as he. Maybe she’d finally sensed that he wasn’t under her spell anymore; or more likely, she’d been told that her assignment sleeping with Jeffrey was over, so there was no more pay in it. Whatever the case, he was almost positive that her phone wouldn’t answer when he got back into town, which was fine. At least he had closure there.

Of a kind.

The taxi rolled to the curb and the bellman held the door open for Jeffrey as he climbed into the car, the sky blue as spring arrived in force. A trio of pretty girls bounced provocatively down the street, chatting with each other, laughing, seemingly without a care in the world, and he watched them with a trace of melancholy, then leaned forward and told the driver in a quiet voice to take him to the airport, away from Paris, to a future that was as uncertain his past.