“Red Cliff is on a hundred and fifty secluded acres on the coast of Maine. It was built in 1890 by an eccentric engineer named Gerhardt, who held more than three hundred patents, many of them quite lucrative. Gerhardt indulged his passion for castles by bringing one over here from Germany, stone by stone. The rebuilding took three years. Gerhardt lived to be more than a hundred. During his waning years, when he became aware of the Society of One Hundred Neighbors, he willed it to us, along with enough money to maintain it in this wonderful condition. As the current head of our society, I have the option of living here—an option I was only too pleased to exercise. Have you ever been to Maine before, Ahmed? Or would you prefer I use your birth name, Nazar.”

Kazimi swung around. Generally, Pakistani males were given the first name of Muhammad. The practice of referring to people by their most used name, a second or even third name given at birth, served as a unique identifier. Bacon’s use of Nazar suggested extensive research and comprehensive knowledge. He was both showing off and announcing that One Hundred Neighbors were well armed.

“Yes, we know very well who you are, doctor,” he said. “We also know where you’re from. We know who and where many of your relatives are, as well as the names of your former graduate assistants back at Stanford. We know virtually everything there is to know about you, except for one very important item.”

Kazimi, now seething, glared at Bacon. “I presume this one item is the reason you’ve taken me hostage. What is it you want? What do you intend to do with me?”

Bacon leaned back in his chair, appraising his captive with his sharp eyes.

The man was a psychological predator, Kazimi thought—a stalker, always on the hunt for any angle to exploit, be it a word, an inflection, or even some subtle bit of body language. In spite of himself, Kazimi felt naked and exposed in his presence.

“To be perfectly forthcoming,” Bacon said, “we need you to complete your work on the antibacterial treatment for the Janus strain. That’s the name we have given to the bacteria we have developed.”

Bacon’s accent, a countrified twang really, registered stronger to Kazimi’s ears than it previously had. Perhaps it was the drink, exposing the Southern gentleman for who he really was—a man not born into great wealth, but someone who had acquired it without ever forgoing his roots.

Kazimi’s jaws clenched. The situation, as presented, was dire. Bacon wins, and countless people living in poverty become disenfranchised and ignored while countless others are refused hospital care for conditions that might be easily treatable. Bacon loses, and countless people die from an infection as horrible as the worst of the plague.

“Janus,” Kazimi mused aloud, “the two-faced god of contradictions. Gram positive … Gram negative. Very appropriate choice.”