“Thanks.”

“What about the other American?” Elliott asked.

“That’s a tougher case. He was already in critical condition when he arrived in Mandera, and I don’t favor flying him back to the US—we’re talking roughly eighteen hours in the air, maybe more. He could die in transit. Beating the infection may be his only chance. I want to take some ZMapp with us.”

ZMapp was the only available treatment for Ebola; it had been successful in treating several physicians who contracted the disease in 2014, but had yet to undergo human clinical trials. Its effects were largely unknown.

Elliott nodded. “You want me to get the legal guardians’ consent to treat?”

“Please. The patients may be in no shape to give informed consent.”

“I’ll work on contacting the guardians.” Elliott glanced at the papers strewn about her desk. “You selected your team yet?”

“Just about,” Peyton said. “You ready for the conference?”

“No amount of coffee could make me ready for that.”

Chapter 6

As he walked across the marble-floored lobby, Desmond realized why the police officers were looking at him: because he was looking at them. The natural human reaction was to look back at someone staring at you, and the instinct seemed more honed in those drawn to law enforcement. Such individuals had almost a sixth sense about predators and threats.

Despite her stoic demeanor in the elevator, the white-haired woman was quite frail. She shuffled slowly across the lobby, breathing heavily.

Desmond averted his eyes from the police, stepped aside, and power-walked past her. She was moving away from the revolving glass door, toward a swinging door with a silver bar straight across it. The bellhop was scanning the board of keys, oblivious to his oncoming guest.

Desmond swung the door open and stood in the cool November air, holding it for the lady, facing away, not eyeing her as she slowly approached.

“Vielen dank,” she whispered as she passed.

He opened the door to a cab for her, then slid into the next one in line.

The police were still inside, but the radio chatter on the security channel was feverish now; they would send someone to look for Gerhardt soon. When they did, they would find the four bodies, only three of which were alive.

In German, the driver asked for a destination, which told Desmond that the hotel was not the haunt of foreign tourists or business travelers, but rather of native Germans. It was yet another clue, another piece that might reveal who he was and why he was in Berlin.

Desmond almost answered, Bahnhof—train station—but stopped himself. When the fallen police officers and dead man were found, a citywide search would ensue. Security would be intensified at the train stations and airports, and possibly along the highways and rivers as well.

He needed to think. He needed to know more about what was happening. The answers might still be in Berlin.

In German, he told the man to just drive.

The car didn’t move. In the rearview mirror, the middle-aged man scrutinized his passenger. In English, he said, “I need a destination.”