“That’s the smart money,” Knight said.
“Then why didn’t it die?”
“In any outbreak, a small percentage are genetically immune. Their immune system can control the disease, but they are still infected and still carriers.” Knight had read somewhere that 1 percent of all northern Europeans were even immune to AIDS. Interesting, certainly, though he still wouldn’t be rolling the dice on any unprotected one-night stands.
“How on earth are we going to replace all these cats?” Kate asked him.
The curator seemed much more concerned about potential lost revenue than about the animals under her care.
“I know suppliers,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
“How soon can your company pay out the claim?”
“You’re asking for two hundred thousand per lost cat. That’s five million total, and another five for lost revenue. Before we can cover the losses, we need to confirm the origin of the infected tiger.”
The curator bristled. “I’ve got all the paperwork! What else is there to know?”
Knight was used to this sort of aggressive attitude, especially when so much money was on the line. “These creatures are like fine art,” he said. “Sellers say they come through official channels, and buyers want to believe them. But there are no real official channels.”
Knight’s phone rang. It was Neil Perkins, the British boss of his London-based firm. He stepped away from the curator and lowered his voice.
“There’s no way this little tiger developed feline leukemia in the wild,” he told Perkins. “Until now, the virus never affected anything bigger than a civet cat. This strain could only emerge with multiple species in close proximity.”
“You smell fraud?”
“Sumatran tigers have been hunted to the brink of extinction. There are only a few hundred in the wild, if that. Anyone who sells you a Sumatran ‘rescue tiger’ is selling a unicorn. And any decent mammal curator would know that.” And if the zoo knowingly purchased a black-market tiger that then killed the rest of their population, the claim would be invalid.”
“This is an important client, Randall. We can’t appear to be dragging our heels.”
“I need you to trust me on this one.”
“Where do you think it came from?”
“I don’t know.” Knight gazed at the bloody carcasses strewn around the field. “But wherever it came from, there are going to be a lot more dead tigers.”
CHAPTER 8
THE AGENCY
bethesda, maryland
The rain was coming down in buckets. Davis set his travel mug full of coffee on the roof of his Taurus, where it diluted and cooled with each drop of water that fell in. He hurried to buckle his daughter into the car seat. His umbrella was resting on his passenger seat, and the rain was beginning to soak into his suit. His daughter pushed his hands away, forcing him to wait as she insisted on doing the last buckle herself. Davis felt the water seeping through his shirt as he waited in impotent frustration.
She finally clicked the buckle, and he shut her door. Of all days to start out soaking wet, this wasn’t the one.