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  Transposable elements, retrogenes, had very likely once been the precursors of viruses; some had mutated and learned how to exit the cell, wrapped in protective capsids and envelopes, the genetic equivalents of space suits. A few had later returned as retroviruses, like prodigal sons; some of those, over the millennia, had infected germ-line cells—eggs or sperm or their precursors—and somehow lost their potency. These had become HERV.

  In his travels, Dicken had heard from reliable sources in Ukraine of women bearing subtly and not-so-subtly different children, of children immaculately conceived, of entire villages being razed and sterilized . . . In the wake of a plague of miscarriages.

  All rumors, but to Dicken evocative, even compelling. In his hunting, he relied on well-honed instincts. The stories resonated with something he had been thinking about for over a year.

  Perhaps there had been a conspiracy of mutagens. Perhaps Chernobyl or some other Soviet-era radiation disaster had triggered the release of the endogenous retrovirus that caused Herod’s flu. So far, he had mentioned this theory to no one, however.

  In the Midtown Tunnel, a big panel truck decorated with happy dancing cows swerved and nearly hit him. He stood on the Dodge’s brakes. Squealing tires and a miss of mere inches brought sweat to his brow and unleashed all his anger and frustration. “Fuck you!” he shouted at the unseen driver. “Next time I’ll carry Ebola!”

  He was feeling less than charitable. The CDC would have to go public, perhaps in a few weeks. By that time, if the charts were accurate, there would be well over five thousand cases of Herod’s flu in the United States alone.

  And Christopher Dicken would be credited with little more than a good soldier’s footwork.

  8

  Long Island, New York

  The green and white house stood on top of a low hill, medium in size but stately, 1940s Colonial, surrounded by old oaks and poplars, as well as rhododendrons she had planted three years ago.

  Kaye had called from the airport and picked up a message from Saul. He was at a client lab in Philadelphia and would be back later in the evening. It was seven now and the twilight sky over Long Island was glorious. Fluffy clouds broke free from a dissipating mass of ominous gray. Starlings made the oaks noisy as a nursery.

  She unlocked the door, pushed her bags through, and keyed in her code to deactivate the alarm. The house smelled musty. She put down her bags as one of their two cats, an orange tabby named Crickson, sallied into the hallway from the living room, claws ticking faintly on the warm teak floor. Kaye picked him up and skritched him under the neck and he purred and mewed like a sick calf. The other cat, Temin, was nowhere in sight. She guessed he was outside, hunting.

  The living room made her heart sag. Dirty clothes had been scattered everywhere. Microwave cardboard dishes lay scattered on the coffee table and oriental rug before the couch. Books and newspapers and yellow pages torn from an old phone book sprawled over the dining table. The musty smell came from the kitchen: rotten vegetables, stale coffee grounds, plastic food wrappers.

  Saul had had a bad time of it. As usual, she had returned just in time to clean up.

  Kaye opened the front door and all the windows.

  She fried herself a small steak and made a green salad with bottled dressing. As she opened a bottle of pinot noir, Kaye noticed an envelope on the white tile counter near the espresso maker. She set the wine out to breathe, then tore open the envelope. Inside was a flowery greeting card with a scrawled note from Saul.

  Kaye.

  Sweetest Kaye, love love love I am so sorry. I missed you and this time it shows, all over the house. Don’t clean up. I’ll have Caddy do it tomorrow and pay her extra. Just relax. The bedroom is spotless. I made sure of that.

  Crazy old Saul

  Kaye folded the note with an unmollified sniff and stared at the counter and cabinets. Her eye fell on a neat stack of old journals and magazines, out of place on the butcher block table. She lifted the magazines. Underneath, she found a dozen or so printouts, and another note. She turned off the heat on the stove and put a lid over the pan to keep the steak warm, then picked up the pile and read the first sheet.

  Kaye . . .

  You peeked! This stack by way of apology. Very exciting. Got it off Virion and asked Ferris and Farrakhan Mkebe at UCI what they know. They wouldn’t tell me everything, but I think It’s here, just like we predicted. They call it SHERVA—Scattered Human Endogenous Retrovirus Activation. There’s very little useful on the web sites, but here’s the discussion.

  Love and admiration. Saul.

  Kaye did not know quite why, but this made her cry. Through a film of tears, she flipped through the papers, then put them on the tray beside her steak and salad. She was tired and overwrought. She carried the tray into the den to eat and watch television.

  Saul had made a small fortune patenting a special variety of transgenic mouse six years ago; he had met and married Kaye the year after that, and immediately he had put most of his fortune into EcoBacter. Kaye’s parents had contributed a substantial amount as well, just before their deaths in an auto accident. Thirty workers and five staff filled the rectangular gray and blue building in a Long Island industrial park, cheek-by-jowl with half a dozen other biotech companies. The park was four miles from their house.

  She wasn’t due at EcoBacter until noon tomorrow. She hoped that something would delay Saul and she would have more time by herself, to think and prepare, but this wish made her choke up again. She tossed her head in disgust at her rampant emotions and drank her wine through dripping, salty lips.

  All she really wanted was for Saul to be healthy, to get better. She wanted her husband back, the man who had changed her perspective on life, her inspiration and partner and stable center in a rapidly spinning world.

  As she chewed small bites of steak, she read the messages from the Virion discussion group. There were over a hundred, several from scientists, most from dilettantes and students, rehashing and speculating upon the spotty news.

  She sprinkled A-1 sauce over the last of the meat and took a deep breath.

  This could be important stuff. Saul had a right to be excited. There were so few specifics, however, and not a clue as to where the work had been done, or where it was going to be published, or who had leaked the news.

  She took her tray into the kitchen just as the phone rang. With a little pirouette in her stocking feet, she balanced the tray on one hand and answered.

  “Welcome home!” Saul said. His deep voice still sent a small thrill. “Dear far-traveling Kaye!” He became contrite. “I wanted to apologize for the mess. Caddy couldn’t come in yesterday.” Caddy was their housekeeper.

  “It’s good to be back,” she said. “Working?”

  “I’m stuck here. Can’t get away.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  “Don’t clean up the house.”

  “I haven’t. Not much.”

  “Did you read the printouts?”

  “Yes. They were hidden on the counter.”

  “I wanted you to read them in the morning with coffee, when you’re at your sharpest. I should have more solid news by then. I’ll be back by eleven tomorrow. Don’t go to the lab right away.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” she said.

  “You sound beat. Long flight?”

  “Bad air,” she said. “I got a nosebleed.”

  “Poor Mädchen,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’m fine now that you’re here. Did Lado . . . ?” He let the sentence trail off.

  “Not a clue,” Kaye lied. “I did my best.”

  “I know. Sleep snug and I’ll make it up to you. There’s going to be stunning news.”

  “You’ve heard more. Tell me,” Kaye said.

  “Not yet. Anticipation is its own joy.”

  Kaye hated games. “Saul—”

  “I am adamant. Besides, I haven’t got all the confirmation I need. I love you. I miss you.” He made a kiss-sound good night, and after multiple good-bye
s, they broke the connection simultaneously, an old habit. Saul was sensitive about being last on the line.

  Kaye looked around the kitchen, wrapped a dishrag around her hand, and began to clean up. She did not want to wait for Caddy. After straightening to her satisfaction, she showered, washed her hair and wrapped it in a towel, put on her favorite rayon pajamas, and built a fire in the upstairs bedroom fireplace. Then she squatted in a lotus on the end of the bed, letting the bright flames and the soft smoothness of the rayon reassure her. Outside, the wind rose and she saw a single flash behind the lace curtains. The weather was turning rough.

  Kaye climbed into bed and pulled the down comforter up under her neck. “At least I’m not feeling sorry for myself anymore,” she said in a bold voice. Crickson joined her, parading his fluffy orange tail across the bed. Temin leaped up as well, more dignified, though a little damp. He condescended to be rubbed down with her towel.

  For the first time since Mount Kazbeg, she felt safe and balanced. Poor little girl, she accused. Waiting for her husband to return. Waiting for her real husband to return.

  9

  New York City

  Mark Augustine stood before the window of his small hotel room, holding a late night bourbon and water on the rocks, and listened to Dicken’s report.

  Augustine was a compact and efficient man with smiling brown eyes, a firmly rooted head of concentrated gray hair, a small but jutting nose, and expressive lips. His skin was permanently sun-browned from years spent in equatorial Africa, and from his years in Atlanta, his voice was soft and melodious. He was a tough and resourceful man, adept at politicking, as befitted a director, and it was said by many at the CDC that he was being groomed to be the next surgeon general.

  When Dicken finished, Augustine put down his drink. “Ver-r-r-r-ry inter-esting,” he said in an Artie Johnson voice. “Amazing work, Christopher.”

  Christopher smiled but waited for the long assessment.

  “It fits with most of what we know. I’ve spoken with the SG,” Augustine continued. “She thinks we’re going to have to go public in small steps, and soon. I agree. First, we’ll let the scientists have their fun, cloak it in a little romance. You know, tiny invaders from inside our own bodies, gee, isn’t it fascinating, we don’t know what they can do. That sort of thing. Doel and Davison in California can outline their discovery and do that for us. They’ve been working hard enough. They certainly deserve some glory.” Augustine again lifted the glass of whiskey and twirled the ice and water with a quiet tinkle. “Did Dr. Mahy say when they can get your samples analyzed?”

  “No,” Dicken said.

  Augustine smiled sympathetically. “You would rather have followed them to Atlanta.”

  “I’d rather have flown them there myself and done the work,” Dicken said.

  “I’m going to Washington Thursday,” Augustine said. “I’m backing up the surgeon general before Congress. NIH could be there. We aren’t bringing in the secretary of HHS yet. I want you with me. I’ll tell Francis and Jon to put out their press release tomorrow morning. It’s been ready for a week.”

  Dicken admired this with a private, slightly ironic smile. HHS—Health and Human Services—was the huge branch of government that oversaw the NIH, the National Institutes of Health, and the CDC, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta, Georgia. “A well-oiled machine,” he said.

  Augustine took this as a compliment. “We’ve still got our heads shoved up our asses. We’ve riled Congress with our stance on tobacco and firearms. The bastards in Washington have decided we’re a big fat target. They cut our funding by a third to help pay for a new tax cut. Now a big one comes and it’s not out of Africa or the rain forest. It has nothing to do with our little rape of Mother Nature. It’s a fluke, and it comes from inside our own blessed little bodies.” Augustine’s smile turned wolfish. “It makes my hair prickle, Christopher. This is a godsend. We have to present this with timing, with drama. If we don’t do this right, there’s a real danger no one in Washington will pay attention until we lose an entire generation of babies.”

  Dicken wondered how he could contribute to this runaway train. There had to be some way he could promote his fieldwork, all those years tracking boojums. “I’ve been thinking about a mutation angle,” he said, his mouth dry. He laid out the stories of mutated babies he had heard in Ukraine and outlined some of his theory of radiation-induced release of HERV.

  Augustine narrowed his eyelids and shook his head. “We know about birth defects from Chernobyl. No news in that,” he murmured. “But there’s no radiation here. It doesn’t gel, Christopher.” He opened the room’s window and the noise of traffic ten floors below grew. Breeze puffed the inner white curtains.

  Dicken persisted, trying to salvage his argument, at the same time aware that his evidence was woefully inadequate. “There’s a strong possibility that Herod’s does more than cause miscarriages. It seems to pop up in comparatively isolated populations. It’s been active at least since the 1960s. The political response has often been extreme. Nobody would wipe out a village or kill dozens of mothers and fathers and their unborn children, just because of a local run of miscarriages.”

  Augustine shrugged. “Much too vague,” he said, staring down at the street below.

  “Enough for an investigation,” Dicken suggested.

  Augustine frowned. “We’re talking empty wombs, Christopher,” he said calmly. “We have to play from a big scary idea, not rumors and science fiction.”

  10

  Long Island, New York

  Kaye heard footsteps up the stairs, sat up in bed and pulled her hair from her eyes in time to see Saul. He stalked on tiptoes into the bedroom, along the carpet runner, carrying a small package wrapped in red foil and tied with a ribbon, and a bouquet of roses and baby’s breath.

  “Damn,” he said, seeing she was awake. He held the roses to one side with a flourish and bent over the bed to kiss her. His lips opened and were so slightly moist without being aggressive. That was his signal that her needs came first but he was interested, very. “Welcome home. I have missed you, Mädchen.”

  “Thank you. It’s good to be here.”

  Saul sat on the side of the bed, staring at the roses. “I am in a good mood. My lady is home.” He smiled broadly and lay beside her, swinging his legs up and resting his stocking feet on the bed. Kaye could smell the roses, intense and sweet, almost too much this early in the morning. He presented her with the gift. “For my brilliant friend.”

  Kaye sat up as Saul plumped her pillow into a backrest. Seeing Saul in fine form had its old effect on her: hope and joy at being home and a little closer to something centered. She hugged him awkwardly around the shoulders, nuzzling his neck.

  “Ah,” he said. “Now open the box.”

  She raised her eyebrows, pursed her lips, and pulled on the ribbon. “What have I done to deserve this?” she said.

  “You have never really understood how valuable and wonderful you are,” Saul said. “Maybe it’s just that I love you. Maybe it’s a special occasion just that you’re back. Or . . . maybe we’re celebrating something else.”

  “What?”

  “Open it.”

  She realized with growing intensity that she had been away for weeks. She pulled off the red foil and kissed his hand slowly, eyes fixed on his face. Then she looked down at the box.

  Inside was a large medallion bearing the familiar bust of a famous munitions manufacturer. It was a Nobel prize—made of chocolate.

  Kaye laughed out loud. “Where . . . did you get this?”

  “Stan loaned me his and I made a cast,” Saul said.

  “And you’re not going to tell me what’s going on?” Kaye asked, fingering his thigh.

  “Not for a little while,” Saul said. He put the roses down and removed his sweater and she began unbuttoning his shirt.

  The curtains were still drawn and the room had not yet received its ration of morning sun. They lay on the bed
with sheets and blankets and comforter rucked all around them. Kaye saw mountains in the rumples and stalked her fingers over a flowered peak. Saul arched his back with little cartilaginous pops and swallowed a few great gulps of air. “I’m out of shape,” he said. “I’m becoming a desk jockey. I need to bench-press a few more test benches.”

  Kaye held out her thumb and forefinger and spaced them an inch apart, then raised and lowered them rhythmically. “Test tube exercises,” she said.

  “Right brain, left brain,” Saul rejoined, grabbing his temples and shifting his head from side to side. “You’ve got three weeks’ worth of Internet jokes to catch up on.”

  “Poor me,” Kaye said.

  “Breakfast!” Saul shouted, and swung his legs out of bed. “Downstairs, fresh, waiting to be reheated.”

  Kaye followed him in her dressing gown. Saul is back, she tried to convince herself. My good Saul is back.

  He had stopped by the local grocery to pick up ham-and-cheese stuffed croissants. He arranged their plates between cups of coffee and orange juice on the little table on the back porch. The sun was bright, the air was clean after the squall and warming nicely. It was going to be a lovely day.

  For Kaye, with every hour of good Saul, the lure of the mountains faded like a girlish hope. She did not need to get away. Saul chattered about what had been happening at EcoBacter, about his trip to California and Utah and then Philadelphia to confer with their client and partner labs. “We have four more preclinical tests mandated by our caseworker at the FDA,” he said sardonically. “But at least we’ve shown them we can put antagonistic bacteria together in resource competition and force them to make chemical weapons. We’ve demonstrated we can isolate the bacteriocins, purify them, produce them in neutralized form in bulk—then activate them. Safe in rats, safe in hamsters and vervets, effective against resistant strains of three nasty pathogens. We’re so far ahead of Merck and Aventis they can’t even spit at our butts.”

  Bacteriocins were chemicals produced by bacteria that could kill other bacteria. They were a promising new weapon in a rapidly weakening arsenal of antibiotics.