“You heard me. My theories were misguided. I was wrong. The Janus strain has beaten me. If I am indeed smart, then it is smarter—far smarter. As things stand, my efforts will continue not to succeed, and Janus will do what it will do.”

“I’ve heard enough, doctor.” Again he brandished the phone. “And believe me, Amy Gaspar is not the only one you care about who will die.”

“Burke, you can talk about death all you want. This is all about death. Do you wish to see my mice? Do you want to see for yourself what will happen to your wife if she were to become infected with Janus? You must let me go. You must help me get away from here so I can warn the president.”

“I said enough! In another minute I will make the call, and Dr. Gaspar will hang and it will have been your fault. We want you to succeed at what you’re doing here, Dr. Kazimi. What is it you need to make that happen? More equipment? More money? We will get it for you, whatever it is.”

“I need a miracle,” Kazimi said.

“I’ve got news for you, pal. You are the miracle. Now, tell me what you need.”

Kazimi again looked toward the sea. The ship was just vanishing in the distance, leaving a blanket of dark clouds in its wake.

I’ve got news for you, pal. You are the miracle.

“I need someone’s help,” Kazimi suddenly heard himself saying.

“Bacon has already offered you our best scientists,” Burke replied. “We’ll get them here ASAP.”

“No,” Kazimi said, shaking his head vehemently. “I don’t need your scientists. I need one of mine.”

“A name. Just give me a name.”

“His name is Humphrey Miller.”

Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

Benefits for those deemed less fortunate are organic. They spawn a feast of greed and corruption. Civil War pensions, for example, seemed a moral right, until they sprung a cottage industry of unscrupulous lawyers whose sole purpose was defrauding the federal government by securing pensions for those who had not earned them.

—LANCASTER R. HILL, Climbing the Mountain, SAWYER RIVER BOOKS, 1941, P. 33

The FBI field office in Atlanta was a featureless, twelve-story office building nestled within a corporate industrial complex and approached via a series of wide, tree-lined streets. Vaill drove them around back to a controlled-access parking area, protected with chain-link fence, topped by barbed wire, and guarded by two armed men. Lou had multiple run-ins with the law during his drug-using days. None was pleasant, and every one made him feel as he did at that moment—like a hardened criminal. Vaill flashed the guards his credentials and the chain-link gate glided opened.

“What’s up with the barbed wire?” Lou asked. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Nice to know,” McCall said. “But just in case you decide otherwise, there’s no place you can go.”

The pit in Lou’s gut widened.