“What we do with the treatment is of no concern of yours. What should be of concern is that you will be saving countless lives.” Another sip of Scotch. “The deal is this, dear doctor. We are immediately prepared to provide you with the lab space and all the equipment you require to complete your work. In addition, we will bring in the developer of the Janus strain and treatment so that you two can collaborate. In exchange, we wish to know the names of all the microbiologists you have been working with, and what their contributions have been to your research. I think you’ll agree it is a simple trade, and one that gives us the best chance of quick success.”

“What do I get in return?” Kazimi asked.

Bacon’s smile reminded him of a shark.

“You will get your life,” Bacon said. “In addition to the lives of those already infected with the bacteria that the press is calling the Doomsday Germ. Oh, yes, in addition, you will be saving the lives of every single person you hold dear. I promise you that. They will die and you will be spared until last so you can watch it happen.”

Chapter 22

CHAPTER 22

In the years to come, citizens will wonder with dismay why a fertile America has turned fallow, when they themselves have sucked all the nutrients from the soil.

—LANCASTER R. HILL, MEMOIRS (UNPUBLISHED), 1937–41

For Lou, the final hour of the flight to Atlanta was an emotional one—not unlike returning to the scene of the crime. The glide path to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport might have passed directly over the Chattahoochee forest—directly over the lodge … and the trail … and the cliff; directly over Floyd and Rebecca Weems’s cabin, and their field. The images were as indelible as they were painful.

Lou rested his head against the window and allowed his eyes to close. His thoughts wrapped around another indelible, painful image—Walter Filstrup’s disgustingly smug expression as he fired Lou from the PWO. Stunned, Lou had asked on what grounds Filstrup would tell the board of directors he was being dismissed. The answer was vintage Filstrup—dereliction of duty.

“My best friend could have died,” Lou protested.

“You shouldn’t have been out on a run in the first place,” Filstrup countered. “That demonstrated extremely poor judgment.”

“Walter, this is ridiculous. We run all the time together. It was just a freak accident.”

“You had no contingency plan, Welcome. Nothing in place in the event you were unable to perform your assigned task, which in addition to office-financed attendance at the meeting, included the presentation of a very important speech. Your failure to appear was an embarrassment to us on a national stage.”

You mean an embarrassment to you.