Biowar by Stephen Coonts Page B

ago.”
    “Okay.”
    “D. T. Pound. He’s twenty-two years old,” said Telach. “Text of the E-mails is minimal. Just describes the weather. We’re getting pictures, tracing his credit cards—but we’re working on the theory that he’s over there in Thailand and Kegan went to see him. That jibes with your Internet pages.”
    “This sounds suspiciously like a wild-goose chase, Marie.” Karr looked up at Gorman, who was pretending not to eavesdrop.
    “Maybe. Go to Albany Airport. There’ll be a ticket waiting”
    “Aw, come on.”
    “Tommy—”
    “Can I get some lunch first?”
    “No. We may be under a time constraint here. We just don’t know what’s going on.”
    “You’re out of your mind, Marie.”
    “Not my mind. Mr. Rubens’.”
    “You’re out of his mind, too.”

9

    By the time Charles Dean got off the 767 at Heathrow Airport, he had received the equivalent of an upper-level biology survey course on microbes and related phenomena. Armed with a mini-DVD player, he had worked his way through a collection of lectures that began by explaining the difference between viruses and bacteria. Viruses consisted of RNA or DNA surrounded by a protein shell and required a host cell to replicate; bacteria (the plural of bacterium) were single-cell microorganisms, much larger than viruses but in general able to replicate on their own. From there the lectures had proceeded to explain some of the various subtypes and how they caused disease; the final series demonstrated the rudiments of their replication and manipulation in the laboratory.
    In sum, Dean learned enough to know that he would never in a million years fool anyone in the field.
    But if they wanted an expert, they would have sent a scientist. Rubens wanted someone who could handle a difficult situation if things got complicated. And he wanted someone who knew Keys.
    Did he know him, though?
    He knew a lot of facts—Kegan was a great pool player, loved old houses, and at a shade past fifty could still play a hard game of hoops. He’d beaten back cancer and jogged about three miles a day. He could make women fall in love with him very easily, but inevitably they fell out of love just as fast.
    He’d been a decent basketball player, a better outfielder, and a halfback so quick he might have tried for a sports scholarship if he hadn’t broken his ankle in his senior year.
    But what did he really know about Kegan?
    Kegan’s mother and father had died when he was in college. They were poor people, even poorer than Dean’s family. Kegan had had to work his way through school, even though he’d gotten a scholarship that covered his tuition.
    What did he really know?
    Kegan had been altruistic enough as a young man to volunteer to work for the World Health Organization. He’d been sent to Southeast Asia—Myanmar, then known as Burma. He’d returned older and wiser, but no less altruistic.
    What did he really know?
    That James Kegan wasn’t a murderer.
    What did he really know?
    That once his good friend had had a hell of a jump shot.
    The long flight had left Dean’s knees stiff and he had a kink in his back. He felt creaky all of a sudden, making his way into the terminal like an old man.
    Dean adjusted his glasses—he had not yet been implanted with the Desk Three com system and wasn’t sure he wanted to be. The glasses contained a tiny speaker that focused sound waves so that only he could hear them. There was a microphone near the nose bridge. The glasses connected to a transmission and antenna system in his belt, which was studded with metal.
    “So I’m here,” he told the Art Room.
    “Go through Customs like everyone else,” said Rockman. “Take a taxi to the Renaissance Hotel near Covent Garden. Lia will trail you there.”
    Dean followed a pair of college girls through the terminal building to the long hall in the basement where his luggage waited. He picked up the big brown bag and snapped out the handle to wheel it along. The