Chapter 13

Baltimore — Boston - Bangkok 2014-2019

"You've got..." Cassandra dropped a long white envelope on my lap, " ... mail."

"Ohmmmm, what's this?" I sighed, collapsing on our old sofa. "I don't need another credit card."

"Rough night?" my friend asked and she was 27, ten years older than I was, and an intern at Baltimore General, just like me. I'd just gotten off the night shift and Cassie would be going on later that afternoon.

We shared a small apartment in Baltimore, not far from the hospital really, in a predominantly black neighborhood. Interns didn't get paid very much and after graduating from medical school I'd wanted to flex my independence. I had money from my parents and a very rich uncle in Mr. Fox, but I wanted a lesson in humility and I'd found it.

"Three kids in a drive by, one of them was pregnant ... Hey!" I frowned, looking at the envelope and the return address. "This is from NIAID."

"No foolin' ... I sorta noticed that." Cassandra's green eyes were smiling and she always woke up cheerful. "Open it up."

"Dear Doctor Pinchbeck ... Blah blah blah..." I blinked at the form letter. "Your application to the Horace Tufts Research Laboratory has been reviewed and accepted for consideration..."

"What?" Cassandra grinned at me and I read through it quickly and then again, once more slowly.

"I have an appointment with a Dr. Seyle on..." I had to think about it, " ... Thursday. For my interview."

"I didn't know you applied there," Cassandra said, taking the letter out of my hands and looking at it. "Nice fucking paper too."

"I didn't apply anywhere," I smiled at her. "Horace Tufts..."

"Never heard of it. What do they do?" Cassandra wondered and I shook my head.

"I don't know," I laughed. "But it's NIAID, so ... I want it."

"How'd they get your name?" Cassandra gave me back the letter.

"I don't know that either," I licked my lips, but I had a good idea.

"You've got a serious guardian angel someplace, Jen," Cassie grinned.

"Yeah," I sighed. "An old one."

"Your handiwork?" I slid the envelope across the table towards Mr. Fox and he tilted his head.

"You didn't think I'd forgotten about you?" the old man smiled. "It's what you want."

"It's what you want." I picked up my wine, even though I was only seventeen, and we were in one of the nicer restaurants in Baltimore for a very private dinner.

"I merely arranged the introduction, my dear," Mr. Fox said, looking at the envelope. "The rest is up to you."

"Just tell me," I sighed. "I'm no good at this stuff."

"Horace Tufts is part of the Army Medical Research and Development Command at Fort Dietrich," Mr. Fox said. "For administrative purposes it falls under the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases."

"That's what? Like a cover story?" I smiled.

"Something like that, but only a thin one," Mr. Fox shrugged. "When the Biological Warfare Convention went into effect in 1975 the United States agreed to abandon any development of biological weapons and delivery systems."

"Okay."

"The loophole..." Mr. Fox smiled, " ... is that we're still allowed to develop countermeasures to detect, identify, and best of all for you, neutralize biological weapons."

"So ... we develop biological weapons so that we can defend ourselves against them?" I narrowed my eyes. "Is that what you're saying this place does?"

"You have to know your enemy," Mr. Fox said. "You want to be a virologist? This is the place to start."

"Weapons." I licked my lips.

"A year or two in the lab and we can get you into the field," Mr. Fox leaned forward slightly. "That's where you really want to be, isn't it?"

"What do you need from me?" I asked him, knowing that I'd never get anything from this man for free.

"Nothing but the brilliance of which you're capable, my dear," Mr. Fox chuckled and offered me a small toast with his wine. "I want to watch you shine."

"So? Who is he?" The lieutenant stirred his coffee slowly, frowning at the color. "Get me some goddamn Coffee Mate, will ya?" He wasn't talking to anyone in particular and none of the other four men moved, except Goddard.

They were looking at me for the most part, and I conscientiously avoided their eyes. The very last thing I'd expected when I woke up that morning was to be sitting in a police station and I was hardly dressed for it in my tailored blue suit. The skirt was modest anyway, and my white blouse opaque enough, but I'd dressed for a classroom at Harvard Medical School, not the down to earth, nuts and bolts of Boston's Finest. I felt a little naked, actually.

"He's Patrick Fredrick Burroughs, a 24 years old grad student at MIT. No record. No tickets. No nothing," Detective Goddard said, tossing a packet of creamer across the desk.

"Fredrick, eh?" Lieutenant Riley grunted. He was older, nearing sixty and probably retirement after nearly forty years as a cop.

"Neighbor reported a suspicious smell..." Goddard smiled at me, as if I'd find suspicious smells particularly amusing.

"Smell?" Riley frowned, biting the creamer packet with his teeth.

The detective shrugged. "Smell, yeah. Landlady opened the door for a uniform, new guy from the one three named Barnes. Our rookie took about 30 seconds..."

"Closer to a minute," one of the other men, Harris, corrected Goddard with a smile.

"A minute then. And called us. Detective Harris and I arrived just in time to catch the young Mister Burroughs chasing his bus." Goddard laughed and his partner grinned.

"Apparently boss," explained Detective Harris, "this guy gets off the bus, sees a black and white outside his apartment, and decides he don't wanna get off the bus after all. He's running alongside, pounding and yelling. It was funny as hell."

"I bet," the lieutenant eyed the other two men. "And you guys were..."

"Across the street. I'm Clayton and this is Special Agent Younger," one of them replied.

"ATF, FBI, all we're missing is DEA and we could have a real party," the older man observed dryly. "So what's your interest?"

"The guy's name showed up on some orders for methane hydrate," Agent Clayton explained. "Some big orders..."

"The hell is that?" Riley sipped his coffee and made a face.

"It's a fossil fuel, methane gas trapped in sand, stuff like that," Younger, a good looking black man spoke up. "The short version is, the stuff can be used to make explosives, so Homeland Security keeps tabs on who's buying how much."

"Like fertilizer, sure," Riley shrugged. "So you guys are with Homeland Security and this Burroughs guy was what? Making bombs?"

"Well, that's what we want to find out," Agent Clayton said with a smile. "You got him downstairs, we just want to have a sit down with him."

"What'd we get him on?" Riley looked at his two detectives.

"Suspicion right now, depends on what he was cooking," Goddard said. "We wanna charge him with kidnapping, but..."

"But we don't know if that's gonna stick," Harris shrugged. "We found a girl, a school kid in the bedroom. She was high as hell on something, they got her down at Sisters of Mercy. Burroughs ain't said a word except to ask for his lawyer."

"So could be he's a real bad guy, or..." Riley held out his hands.

"Or could be the kid's his little sister and he's Chef Boyardee, we don't know," Goddard nodded. "But he was running from something, boss."

"Sounds like a real soup fucking sandwich," Riley leaned back in his chair. "And you found..."

"Monkeys," Harris shrugged and everyone looked at me. "We didn't touch anything. Called forensics, they took one look at all the test tubes and shit and turned around."

"That was the smell," Goddard chuckled and I wondered if he had a thing for strange scents.

"And so they called you," the lieutenant nodded at me. "So ... who are you?"

"Jennifer Pinchbeck," I cleared my throat. "I'm with NIAID."

"Oh," Riley nodded and looked around. "Can someone please tell me what a nigh aid is?"

"It's the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases," I said. "I'm just here to make sure you don't kill half of Boston."

"Right," Riley grinned. "Hay fever is a bitch. Uh, how old are you ... Jennifer is it?"

"Nineteen," I coughed lightly. "Your department called CDC in Atlanta, my office is copied on all reports of possible contagion and I'm the closest person available."

"Do you live here in Boston, Miss Pinchbeck?" Goddard asked me with a smile.

"It's Doctor Pinchbeck and I'm supposed to be delivering a lecture on a recent influenza outbreak in Mexico..." I looked pointedly at my watch, " ... Right about now, actually. So if you wouldn't mind I'd like to take a look at the house and the monkeys."

"You're a doctor?" Riley narrowed his eyes.

"Can I get a ride?" I smiled sweetly. "Please?"

Harris and Goddard were nice enough to drive me. The Homeland Security guys just wanted to talk with Burroughs. The forensics team had remained at the scene, waiting for an expert, and the police had cordoned off the block and secured the small apartment building. I felt both excited and a little nervous. More than a year after starting at Horace Tufts, this was my first work outside the laboratory. I had about four hours to play before someone arrived from Atlanta and I really didn't want to screw it up.

"So, Doc, what do you think he was cooking up in there?" Harris asked me, turning around in the front seat so he could look at me.

"I won't know until I look," I shrugged. "You sure it's not a meth lab or something?"

"Heh!" Goddard was eyeing me in his rearview mirror. "They don't have monkeys in meth labs, Jennifer ... Can I call you that?"

"Hmmm..." I ignored his question.

"So you were gonna talk about the flu, huh?" Harris asked with smile. "In Mexico?"

"It's one of my specialties," I nodded.

"Really?" Goddard nodded. "What, uh, else do you like?"

"Who cares about the flu in Mexico?" Harris wondered.

"The Spanish Flu, at the end of the First World War, killed more people than the war itself did," I said.

"How many's that?" Harris asked.

"In the war? Twenty million," I told him. "Roughly."

"And the flu killed more than that?" Harris narrowed his eyes and I nodded.

"Yeah, but we got pills now," Detective Goddard said. "Hell, they give us a shot every year."

"Hate those shots," Harris frowned. "Always makes me sick."

"Yeah, why we do gotta get a shot every year, Jennifer?" Goddard asked me. "I always wondered about that."

"Because influenza mutates, it changes," I told him, looking out the window. "The medicine that works one year, doesn't work the next."

"Huh," Detective Harris nodded. "I thought there was just a bunch of different kinds."

"There are," I smiled at him. "Millions of them."

"You're real cheerful, Doc," Harris sighed, turning back around and looked at his partner. "Like we ain't got enough to worry about."

We pulled up in front an old brick building, painted white and streaked with rust from the fire escape crawling halfway up the side. The Mystic River was just a few blocks away and all I could smell was the brown water, the muddy banks. I found a black panel truck with the BPD shield in gold on the side of it. A number of men were standing around it talking and they were waiting on me, I realized finally and fully, which was a feeling I liked.

"Who are you?" an older man asked me, heavyset and dressed up already in a yellow hazard suit.

"Doctor Denny, meet Doctor Jennifer," Goddard grinned. "She wants to see the monkeys."

"Doctor Pinchbeck," I said. "I'm with NIAID. Do you have a suit for me?"

"You're a doctor?" The guy looked me up and down and then started digging for what I needed in his truck. "Shit. Yeah, okay, I got one for ya. I'm Doctor Adams, Dennis ... Or Denny ... Uh, where'd you go to school?"

"I'm going to close the door," I smiled at him and skirts were never intended for biohazard suits. Thankfully the truck was barely roomy enough that I could change inside.

"Jeeze, you think she's real?" I heard one of the men asking and I rolled my eyes.

"Johns Hopkins. Number one in my class," I said, coming out of the van carefully some five minutes later. "Check me."

"Check you?" Adams smiled.

"All that necessary, Doc?" Harris was watching me, him and his partner both.

"For rips? Tears?" I frowned at Adams. "You've done this before, haven't you?"

"What? Oh sure, yeah we..." he cleared his throat. "We have drills, you know."

"He's an assistant medical examiner," one of the other men said. "Don't let him fool you."

"I'm, uh, better with bodies," Adams confessed.

"I'm better with bugs," I shrugged, which is a wasted gesture in a biosuit, believe me.

I looked at the other two men, both dressed in biosuits as well and I shook my head. "Just me and you, Dr. Adams. Your men can wait out here."

"We're not going in?" one of the men asked.

"No, we need to minimize exposure," I licked my lips. "After we know what we have, I'll decide if we need anyone else inside."

"You'll decide?" Adams frowned at me and I ignored it.

"Double gloves and hoods up, these chemical masks won't stop a virus," I told him and I wondered if I wasn't going a little overboard, but I was having fun.

"Double gloves?"

"And leave the toolkit, Batman," I shook my head at the belt he was wearing, the man looked like a carpenter. "All we need is a sample kit, uh, an evidence kit and whatever else ... No sharps, okay? Leave the pocket knife."

"Shit, I thought the Feds were bad," someone said and I frowned, but I wasn't going to say anything back.

"Whatever you say." Adams was turning a little red faced, but I'd really expected a little more out of a forensics guy.

It wasn't often they had to deal with anything real though. Collecting something like anthrax was just a little different than collecting blood off the sidewalk. The man's lack of experience was making me feel like the girl who cried wolf and I had mixed feelings about finding something worth all this trouble. Adams seemed to be having a hard time taking the threat seriously in any case. I really hoped that would change once we got inside, because one slip in there could change his life forever.

Biosuits are always hot and uncomfortable and I'd never really liked them. I had to breathe canned air and the canister was heavy, forty minutes of oxygen packed in a smooth, self-contained backpack made of molded plastic. I had to think about my movements before I made them, turning my head first to see exactly where I was going. It made doing even the simplest things a slow and tedious process, but as soon as I saw the guy's apartment I knew we were onto something.

"I'm going to take pictures," Dennis told me, his voice deep and muffled in his hood.

"Okay, just warn me first," I said, finding a place on the floor for the samples kit, which was a large plastic toolbox that folded open.

"Flashing," Dennis said and I closed my eyes for a second.

There were a dozen rhesus monkeys, two of them dead, one prone and dying with its thin chest rising and falling rapidly. Rats as well, a five gallon aquarium with eight small brown mice and they looked happy enough. On a couple cheap card tables, covered with a piece of plywood to make a larger single workplace, a small lab had been set up. It was neat and orderly compared to the rest of the place and I catalogued it patiently while Adams took photographs. The monkeys didn't like the flash bulbs though and they screeched wildly, some of them spitting and throwing feces through their cages.

"Fucking monkeys," Adams said.

I examined a microscope, functional and already prepped with a sample. It had a metal tag stamped with 'Property of MIT' and I wondered how Burroughs had gotten it out. From what I could tell, most of his equipment had been borrowed, to put it nicely. While it wasn't an electron microscope or anything, it certainly wasn't a toy either and if the microscope was good enough for Burroughs, it would probably serve my immediate purposes just as well. A moment later I was sure of it.

"Get on your radio," I told Adams. "I want Burroughs and the girl they found isolated immediately. Who were the forensic guys that came in here?"

"Uh, all three of us did, why?"

"I want your men quarantined as well. Right now. The cops too."

"What? Did you find something?" Adams asked and his voice had an uneven quality to it, even through the biosuit.

"Oh yeah," I said and I felt my heart pumping rapidly, a feeling like ... euphoria was flooding my brain. I had to push it away and close my eyes for a second. My first time out and I was looking at death in an uncontrolled environment. I'd always been pretty lucky.

"Sin Nombre," I said into my celphone, standing outside and bathing in the relatively cool air.

"Really?" General Palmer grunted. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I got an eyeball on it," I told him. I had a near photographic memory and the General knew it. "The guy was milking rats, incubating it with monkeys. I found a liter of blood, a little more than that, in the refrigerator. It's all good."

"Where's he at?"

"There's two of them, a man named Burroughs and a girl, early teens. No ID on her yet. I've got them in quarantine at the local hospital, along with three police officers and three forensic guys who entered the scene before I got here. I'm going there now and I'll run the labs myself."

"Six went in?" General asked. "That many?"

"Yeah, well. How were they supposed to know?" I asked reasonably. "There's also a landlady and two neighbors in the building. It's unlikely, but..."

"Yeah, get them too," the man sighed because we were up to eleven already and in our business the numbers never went down. "Okay, I've got some calls to make." The General thought for a minute. "You have any problems, Jen?"

"No sir," I shook my head at the phone. "Boston PD wasn't ready for this. Atlanta needs to do the cleanup."

"Nobody's ready for it," the man said. "Yeah, CDC will be sending everyone, that's not a problem. Alright. Keep me informed."

"Yes sir," I agreed, turning off my phone and Riley had been standing nearby waiting impatiently.

"What's in there?" the lieutenant asked me.

"Sin Nombre Virus, it's from the southwest," I told him. "It's found in mice and transmitted through body fluids, saliva and urine, feces, blood."

"Is it dangerous?" He looked at the apartment.

"It kills about half the people who get it," I nodded. "So, yeah. It's dangerous."

"You think my guys got it?" Riley looked at me again and I shrugged.

"It's doubtful they were exposed. I'm going to the hospital," I said. "I'll do the tests personally, but it might be too soon for anything conclusive. They'll have to be kept isolated for at least 72 hours and by then we'll know for sure."

"What if they were?" he asked. "There's a cure, right?"

"Sin Nombre is a hantavirus and there's several different strains," I explained. "I don't even know if we've seen this particular one before or not."