“Correct on both counts. The natural reservoir host for Ebola remains unknown, but we’re almost certain that African fruit bats harbor the virus without symptoms. When it jumps from bats to humans, it wreaks havoc. So we’re looking for anyone who may have come into contact with bats or bat droppings. Maybe they went into a cave or ate bush meat that contained bat, or maybe they consumed another animal that came into contact with a fruit bat. It’s likely that when we find our index case, they’ll have contracted the virus from a bat.”
To the entire group, Peyton asked, “What do we do with people showing symptoms of the disease?”
“Isolation,” they said in unison.
“And people they’ve had contact with but who show no symptoms?”
“Quarantine.”
“That’s right. In this instance, the quarantine period is twenty-one days from the time they first had contact with the virus. If they are symptom-free after twenty-one days, we turn them loose.”
She looked over the assemblage. “Any questions?”
When no one spoke, she placed the dry-erase marker back in the whiteboard’s tray. “Good. Let’s split up into groups. We’ve still got a lot to do before we arrive.”
Chapter 12
In Berlin, Desmond was preparing for the next day’s meeting.
He had gone out just after sunset, when the streets were filled with people. Wearing the hat and secondhand clothes he’d purchased earlier in the day, he moved quickly, never making eye contact. At a drogerie, he bought the items he most desperately needed.
He stood now in the tiny, white-tiled wet room of the flat, watching his blond hair fall into the sink as the clippers buzzed. He left only about a quarter of an inch all over. He applied the dark hair dye and sat on the Murphy bed.
As he waited for the dye to soak in, he took out the disposable smartphone and did an internet search for himself—something he’d been wanting to do ever since he’d acquired the device.
The first hit was for a news article from Spiegel Online. The police had found the taxi driver. And more: American authorities had raided his home outside San Francisco. So he was an American—or at least had a home there.
The second search result was for Icarus Capital, where he was listed as the founder and managing partner. He quickly read his bio, but it was all about his career: investment successes, public speeches given, and a smattering of community commitments. He was a patron of the California Symphony, apparently. None of the organizations listed rang a bell.
He clicked the Investments page and read the names: Rapture Therapeutics, Phaethon Genetics, Rendition Games, Cedar Creek Entertainment, Rook Quantum Sciences, Extinction Parks, Labyrinth Reality, CityForge, and Charter Antarctica.
Rapture Therapeutics. He had seen that name earlier that morning—on the employee ID card from the dead man in his hotel room.
He navigated to the Rapture Therapeutics website.
It was a biotech company focused on neurological therapies. Rapture had initially focused on helping patients manage depression, schizophrenia, bipolar, and other psychological conditions. Their most recent offering, Rapture Transcend, targeted brain plaques and eliminated them using a genetically engineered protein.