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  “Do they know what’s on the Beagle yet?”

  “We don’t know. We don’t think so.”

  “Good. Sink the icebreaker.”

  The other man in the conference room spoke for the first time. “Don’t do this, Conner.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “We do. This is an opportunity.”

  “Opportunity for what?”

  “To show the world what’s aboard the Beagle.”

  Conner turned to the young officer. “You have your orders, Lieutenant. Dismissed.”

  When the door closed, Conner spoke quietly to the other man in the conference room. “We’re on the verge of the most important event in human history. We’re not going to let the barbarian hordes vote on it.”

  Dr. Hans Emmerich held his breath when the submarine’s outer hatch opened.

  Behind him, Dr. Peter Finch studied a laptop screen. “Clear. Seal’s good.”

  “Radiation?” Emmerich asked.

  “Negligible.”

  Emmerich and the three scientists descended the ladder into the vessel. The LED lights from their suit helmets cast white beams through the dark tomb as they moved slowly through the cramped corridors, careful not to let anything catch on their suits. A tear could be deadly.

  When they reached the vessel’s bridge, Emmerich aimed his helmet lamps at a bronze plaque on the wall. “Prometheus, Alpha One. Are you receiving this?”

  A scientist on the Healy responded instantly. “Copy, Alpha One, receiving audio and video.”

  The plaque on the wall read:

  RSV Beagle

  hong kong

  1 May 1965

  Ordo ab Chao

  Emmerich exited the bridge and began searching for the captain’s stateroom. If he was lucky, the logs would be stored there, and they would finally reveal where the Beagle had been and what the crew had discovered. If he was right, the vessel held evidence of a scientific revelation that would forever change the course of human history.

  Dr. Finch’s voice crackled in Emmerich’s earpiece. “Alpha One, Alpha Two, do you copy?”

  “Copy, Alpha Two.”

  “We’ve reached the lab level. Should we enter?”

  “Affirmative, Alpha Two. Proceed with caution.”

  In the dark corridor, Emmerich waited.

  “Alpha One, we’re seeing two exam rooms with metal tables, maybe ten feet long. Rooms are sealed for bio-containment. The rest of the area is filled with long rows of storage bins, like large deposit boxes in a vault. Should we open one?”

  “Negative, Alpha Two,” Emmerich said quickly. “Are they numbered?”

  “Affirmative,” Finch said.

  “We’ll have to find the inventory.”

  “Hold on. There’s a metal disc on each bin.” A pause. “The disc covers a viewport like a peephole. There are bones in this one. Human. No, wait. They can’t be.”

  Another researcher spoke. “There’s a mammal in this one, feline. Species unknown. It must have been frozen alive. It’s still in ice.”

  Emmerich heard the clicks of metal discs sliding back and forth like the shutter of a camera.

  “Alpha One, you should get down here. It’s like Noah’s Ark.”

  Emmerich began shuffling through the cramped corridor, still being careful not to let anything puncture his suit. “Prometheus, Alpha One. Are you recording video and audio from Alpha Two, Three, and Four?”

  When no response came, Emmerich stopped in his tracks. “Prometheus, this is Alpha One, do you copy?”

  He called a second time, and a third. Then he heard a loud boom, and the floor beneath him shook.

  “Prometheus?”

  Day 1

  320 infected

  0 dead

  Chapter 1

  Dr. Elim Kibet sat in his white-walled office, watching the sun rise over the rocky landscape of northeastern Kenya. The Mandera Referral Hospital was a run-down facility in one of the most impoverished corners of the world, and it had recently become his responsibility. Some in his shoes would consider that a burden. He considered it an honor.

  Beyond his closed door, screams pierced the silence. Footsteps pounded the hallway and a nurse yelled, “Doctor, come quick!”

  There was no question which doctor they were calling for; Elim Kibet was the only physician left. The others had departed after the terror attacks. Many of the nurses had followed. The government had denied requests for armed guards at the rural hospital. They had also defaulted on an agreement to pay the health workers fairly and on time. That had sent another wave of workers fleeing the crumbling facility. The hospital operated with a skeleton staff now. The remaining members either had no place to go or were too dedicated to leave. Or, in the case of Elim Kibet, both.

  He donned his white coat and hurried down the hall, toward the cries for help.

  Mandera was one of Kenya’s poorest counties. Per capita income was 267 US dollars—less than 75 cents per day. The dusty, dirt road town lay at the crossroads of three nations: Kenya, Somalia, and Ethiopia. People in Mandera lived off the land, often barely scraping by, and found joy where they could. It was a place of breathtaking beauty and unspeakable brutality.

  The world’s deadliest diseases were endemic to the region, but they were far from the most dangerous elements in the area. Al-Shabaab, an Islamic terror group and affiliate of al-Qaeda, attacked the villages and government facilities frequently. Their ruthlessness was staggering. Less than a year ago, al-Shabaab militants stopped a bus outside Mandera and ordered all the Muslim passengers to get off. They refused and instead crowded around the Christian passengers. Al-Shabaab dragged everyone from the bus—both Muslim and Christian—lined them up, and shot them. Thirty-seven people died that day.

  As Elim raced down the dingy hall, that was his first thought—another al-Shabaab attack.

  To his surprise, he found two young white men in the exam room, their dark brown hair long and shaggy, their thick beards dripping with sweat. One man stood by the door, holding a video camera. The other lay on the exam table, rolling side to side, his eyes closed. The stench of diarrhea and vomit was overwhelming.

  Two nurses were leaning over the man, performing an intake exam. One drew a thermometer from the man’s mouth and turned to Elim. “A hundred and four, Doctor.”

  The young man with the video camera let it fall to the side and caught Elim by the upper arm.

  “You’ve gotta help him!”

  Elim pulled free and extended his arm to push the man into the corner, away from the exam table.

  “I will. Back away, please.”

  Elim’s initial diagnosis was malaria. The disease was rampant in tropical and subtropical regions, especially impoverished areas like Mandera, which was only about two hundred and fifty miles from the equator. Worldwide, over two hundred million people were infected with malaria each year, and nearly half a million died from the disease. Ninety percent of those deaths took place in Africa, where a child died of malaria every minute. Westerners visiting Kenya frequently came down with malaria as well. It was treatable, and that gave Elim some hope as he snapped on a pair of blue gloves and began his exam.

  The patient was barely conscious. His head tossed from side to side as he mumbled. When Elim pulled the man’s shirt up, his diagnosis changed immediately. A rash ran from his abdomen to his chest.

  Typhoid fit these symptoms better. It was also endemic to the region, and was caused by bacteria—Salmonella typhi—that bred in open pools of water. Typhoid was manageable. Curable. Fluoroquinolones—one of the few antibiotics they had on hand—would treat it.

  Elim’s hope vanished when the man’s eyelids parted. Yellow, jaundiced eyes stared up at him. Blood pooled at the corner of his left eye, then trickled down the man’s face.

  “Get back,” Elim said, spreading his arms out, sweeping the nurses with him.

  “What’s the matter with him?” the man’s friend asked.

  “Clear the room,” Eli
m said.

  The nurses evacuated immediately, but the young man stood his ground. “I’m not leaving him.”

  “You must.”

  “I won’t.”

  Elim studied the young man. There was something off here. The camera, his demeanor, showing up here of all places.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Lucas. Turner.”

  “Why are you here, Mr. Turner?”

  “He’s sick—”

  “No, why are you in Kenya? What are you doing here in Mandera?”

  “Starting a business.”

  “What?”

  “CityForge. It’s like crowdfunding for startup city governments,” Lucas said, sounding rehearsed.

  Elim shook his head. What’s he talking about?

  “You know what’s wrong with him?” Lucas asked.

  “Perhaps. You need to leave the room.”

  “No way.”

  “Listen to me. Your friend has a very dangerous disease. It is likely contagious. You are at great risk.”

  “What’s he got?”

  “I don’t—”

  “You have to have an idea,” Lucas insisted.

  Elim glanced around, confirming that the nurses had left the room. “Marburg,” he said quietly. When Lucas showed no reaction, he added, “Possibly Ebola.”

  Color drained from Lucas’s sweaty face, making his dark, shaggy hair contrast even more with his pale skin. He looked at his friend on the table, then trudged out of the room.

  Elim walked over to the exam table and said, “I’m going to call for help. I will do everything I can for you, sir.”

  He removed his gloves, tossed them in the waste bin, and drew out his smartphone. He took a photo of the rash, asked the man to open his eyes, and snapped another photo, then sent the images to the Kenyan Ministry of Health.

  At the door, he instructed the nurse waiting outside to keep anyone but him from entering the room. He returned a few moments later wearing a protective gown, facemask, boot covers, and goggles. He also carried the only treatment he could provide his patient.

  On a narrow wooden table in the dingy room, he lined up three plastic buckets. Each bucket had a piece of brown tape with a single word written on it: vomit, feces, urine. In the man’s condition, Elim wasn’t optimistic that he could segregate his exiting bodily fluids, but that was the standard protocol for Ebola and similar diseases, and Elim intended to follow it. Despite having few supplies and little staff, the African doctor was determined to provide the best care he possibly could. It was his duty.

  He handed the man a small paper cup filled with pills—antibiotics, to treat any secondary infections—and a bottle labeled ORS: oral rehydration salts.

  “Swallow these, please.”

  With a shaky hand, the man downed the pills and took a small sip from the bottle. He winced at the taste of the mixture.

  “I know. It tastes bad, but you must. You must stay hydrated.”

  On average, Ebola killed half of those it infected. Even when the body’s immune system defeated the disease itself, the diarrhea during its acute phase was often fatal due to dehydration.

  “I will return soon,” Elim said.

  Outside the room, Elim carefully removed his PPE—personal protective equipment. He knew they didn’t have enough PPE in the hospital to protect all the staff who would need to care for the man. They desperately needed more equipment—and help. In the meantime, Elim would have to isolate the sick man and quarantine Lucas long enough to determine if he was infected too.

  The middle-aged physician was weighing his next move when the nurse called out once again.

  He raced to the hospital’s triage room, where he found yet another westerner, a tall white man, leaning against the door frame. He was older than the other two, but like the other sick man he was pale, sweaty, and smelled of diarrhea and vomit.

  “Is he with the others?” Elim asked.

  “I don’t know,” the nurse answered. “They sent him from the airport.”

  “Sir, please lift your shirt up.”

  The tall man lifted his shirt up, revealing a wide rash.

  Elim took a photo to email to the Ministry of Health. To the triage nurse he said, “Escort him to Exam Two. Do not touch him. Keep your distance. Leave the room. No one enters.”

  He dialed the Kenya Ministry of Health’s Emergency Operation Center. When the line connected, he said, “I’m calling from Mandera Referral Hospital. We have a problem here.”

  Chapter 2

  He had been beaten up. That was his first thought upon waking. His ribs radiated pain. His legs ached. He reached up and touched the tender knot on the left side of his head and quickly drew his hand away.

  He was sprawled out on a king size bed, which was still made up. The morning sun shone through sheer curtains, blinding him and sparking even more pain in his throbbing head.

  He shut his eyes and turned away.

  A few seconds later, he slowly opened his eyes again. The nightstand held a silver lamp and a small writing pad. The letterhead read: Concord Hotel, Berlin.

  He tried to remember checking in, but he couldn’t. And more: he didn’t know what day it was. Or why he was in Berlin. Or his own name, for that matter. What happened to me?

  He rose and hobbled to the bathroom. His ribs ached with every step. He pulled the blue button-up shirt from his khaki pants. A bruise covered his left side; it was dark blue and black in the center, flowing to red at the edges.

  He examined himself in the mirror. His face was fit and trim, with high cheekbones. Thick blond hair fell to his eyebrows, curling slightly at the ends. He had a faint tan, but from his complexion and smooth hands, it was clear that he worked inside, in a white-collar profession. He searched for the knot on his head. It was large, but the blow hadn’t broken the skin.

  He reached in his pockets and found only a thin piece of paper the size of a business card. He drew it out and examined it: a 20% off coupon from Quality Dry Cleaning for Less.

  On the back, he—or perhaps someone else—had scribbled three lines of text.

  The first:

  ZDUQ KHU

  The second:

  7379623618

  And the third was simply three diamonds inside parentheses.

  (<><><>)

  A code of some sort.

  His head hurt too much for codes.

  He laid the card on the vanity, exited the bathroom, and walked through the bedroom into the living area, where he stopped cold. A man lay on the floor. His face was pale and ashy. He wasn’t breathing.

  A single white page lay near the dead man, in front of the door to the suite. It was a bill for the stay, which apparently had begun a week before and included several deliveries from room service and nothing from the minibar.

  Most importantly, the guest name was printed at the top. Desmond Hughes. He knew at once that this was his name, but seeing it brought no flood of memories, only recognition.

  The man on the floor was tall and slender. His hair was gray, thinning, and closely cropped. He wore a dark suit, a white dress shirt, and no tie. A ring of bruises circled his muscular neck.

  Desmond knelt next to the body and began to reach into the man’s pants pockets—then stopped, his instincts kicking in. He grabbed the small wastebasket under the desk, pulled out the plastic liner, and covered his hand, ensuring he didn’t leave any fingerprints or DNA.

  The man’s pocket held a wallet and a hard plastic employee ID card for Rapture Therapeutics. There was no job title listed on the ID card, just a name: Gunter Thorne. The picture matched the pale face lying sideways on the thin carpet. His German ID card and credit cards all showed the same name.

  Desmond slid the items back into the man’s pocket and gently pulled the lapel of his suit back, revealing a black handgun in a holster.

  Desmond sat back on his haunches, which made his legs ache. He stood, trying to stretch them, and scanned the room. It was pristine. Cleaned recently, n
o doubt. He searched it, but it was utterly devoid of any clues. There was no luggage, nothing hanging in the closet. The small safe was open and empty. There weren’t even any toiletries.

  He checked the bill again. No calls.

  What did it all mean? It was as if he had only come here to eat. Or to hide. Did he live in Berlin? If not for Gunter Thorne’s dead body in the living room, Desmond would have already called the front desk to find a reputable urgent care facility. He couldn’t now, not without knowing more. And he had only one clue.

  He walked back to the bathroom and picked up the coupon with the sequence of letters and numbers on the back. As he stared at it, he realized something about the parentheses. In financial statements, they indicated a negative number—a loss. A deduction from a running balance.

  How did he know that? Was he in finance?

  He sat on the bed and took the pad from the side table. What was the key here? Deduction. A loss. Negative.

  There were three diamonds inside the parentheses. So negative three—subtract three. Yes—the bottom line had to be the key, the first two lines the message. The name of the code popped into his mind: a simple substitution cipher. And more, it was a Caesar shift cipher, used famously by Julius Caesar for his secret correspondence.

  Desmond took each of the letters and subtracted three—so Z became W, and D became A. He did the same with the numbers. That yielded:

  WARN HER

  4046390385

  He placed dashes after the third and sixth numbers, producing:

  404-639-0385

  Warn her. And a phone number. Warn her of what? Through the opening between the bedroom and living room, he eyed Gunter Thorne’s dead body. Maybe Rapture Therapeutics or whomever had sent Gunter to the hotel room was after “her” as well. Or maybe it was all unrelated. Or maybe, Desmond had set all of this up to trap Gunter here. She could be an accomplice of his somehow. Either way, she might have answers.