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  “He’s going to blow his top,” Curt said. He’d not heard about this part of the plan and hadn’t given it much thought.

  “It can’t be helped,” Steve said. “We have to get out of the city, particularly after Yuri does his laydown, which he says he’s going to do at the same time we do ours. I don’t feel as confident as he does that it’s just going to blow over the Upper East Side.”

  “That’s a good point,” Curt said. “But why don’t we just disappear? Why say anything to anybody?”

  “Because that would cause too much attention,” Steve explained. “They’d be looking for us right away, maybe even worried we’d been the victims of foul play. Yuri says that using a bioweapon gives a two- to five-day delay until all hell breaks loose. I want us to be far away by then.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Curt conceded.

  “We’ll tell the captain we’ve had it with the bureaucracy and the lack of discipline. That won’t be a lie. We’ve both been complaining how the department has been deteriorating.”

  “What if the captain says he’s not going to accept our resignations?”

  “What is he going to do?” Steve asked. “Put us in leg irons?”

  “I guess not,” Curt said. He still felt uncomfortable about having to face an irate captain. “But maybe we should give this part some more thought.”

  “Fine by me,” Steve said. “As long as we’re on a PATH train to New Jersey ASAP, I don’t really care what we tell anybody. I’m confident of our getaway. I’ve got an old pickup truck over there in a garage near the first stop. That’s going to take us to the first safe house, in Pennsylvania. There I’ve arranged for another vehicle. In fact, we’ll be using a different vehicle after each stop.”

  “I like that,” Curt said.

  Curt turned into the Duane Street firehouse and pulled the car to the side so it didn’t block any of the gleaming red fire trucks. He and Steve locked eyes for a moment and gave each other a thumbs-up.

  “Operation Wolverine is on track,” Curt said.

  “Armageddon here we come,” Steve said.

  As the two men alighted from the vehicle, Bob King, one of the latest recruits, looked up from polishing engine #7. “Hey, Lieutenant!” he called.

  Curt gazed over at the rookie and raised his eyebrows.

  “There was a cabbie in here a little while ago asking for you,” Bob yelled. “He was a short, squat guy with an accent that sounded Russian.”

  Curt glanced at Steve. Steve stared back, aghast. Obviously he didn’t like this news any better than Curt did. There’d been an understanding that Yuri was never supposed to come to the fire station. Their contact had been limited to phone calls and meetings at the White Pride bar.

  “What did he want?” Curt asked hoarsely. He had to clear his throat. With an operation of this magnitude, slipups were unacceptable.

  “He wants you to call him,” Bob said. “He seemed disappointed you weren’t here.”

  “What did you do to him?” another firefighter called out from behind the truck. “Forget to tip him?”

  Laughter erupted from a group of four firemen playing cards near the juncture of the firehouse and the sidewalk. The overhead doors were open to the October afternoon.

  “Did he leave his name or phone number?” Curt asked.

  “Nope,” Bob said. “He just said to have you call him. I thought you’d know who he was.”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea,” Curt said.

  “Well, maybe he’ll be back,” Bob said.

  Curt motioned for Steve to follow him. They climbed the stairs to the living quarters. Curt pushed into the men’s room. Once inside, he checked the stalls and the shower to make sure they were alone.

  “I don’t like this,” Curt spat in a forced whisper. “What the hell did he come here for?”

  “I told you the guy was a kook,” Steve said.

  Curt paced back and forth like a caged animal. He had his mildly prognathous jaw clamped shut. He couldn’t believe Yuri could have been so stupid.

  “I’m worried the guy is a kind of a loose cannon,” Steve said. “I think we have to have a talk with him. At the same time, I’d like to see some proof that he hasn’t been taking us for a ride.”

  Curt nodded as he paced, then stopped. “All right,” he said. “After work we’ll go by his house in Brighton Beach. We’ll talk some sense into him about security. Then we’ll demand to see his lab and demand some proof he’s doing what he says he’s doing.”

  “Do you know his address?” Steve asked.

  “Fifteen Oceanview Lane,” Curt said.

  _____

  FOUR

  Monday, October 18

  12:30 P.M.

  “Knock, knock,” a voice called.

  Both Jack and Chet looked up from their desks to see Agnes Finn, the head of the microbiology lab, standing in the doorway.

  “I feel like this is déjà vu,” Agnes said. “Unfortunately it’s a kind of vu I don’t like.” She had a tentative smile on her usually dour face. Her statement was the closest Jack had ever heard her come to humor. She was clutching a piece of paper in her hand.

  Jack knew instantly what déjà vu she was referring to. Three years previously, when he’d made the shocking diagnosis of plague in a curious infectious case, she’d made it a point to bring the confirming results personally.

  “Don’t tell me it was anthrax,” Jack said.

  Agnes pushed her bottle-bottom glasses higher on her nose and handed the sheet of paper to Jack. It was the result of a direct fluorescent antibody test on one of the mediastinal lymph nodes. In bold capital letters it said: POSITIVE FOR ANTHRAX.

  “This is unbelievable,” Jack said. He handed the sheet to Chet, who read it with equal disbelief.

  “I thought you’d like to know as soon as possible,” Agnes said.

  “Absolutely,” Jack said vaguely. His eyes were glazed. His mind was churning.

  “What’s the reliability of this test?” Chet asked.

  “About a hundred percent,” Agnes said. “It’s very specific and the reagents aren’t old. After all the exotic diseases Jack diagnosed on that flurry of infectious-diseases a couple of years ago, I’ve made sure we’ve kept up to speed for most anything. Of course, for final confirmation we’ve planted cultures.”

  “This illness spreads by spores,” Jack said as if waking from a trance. “Are there any tests for the spores or do you just have to grow them out and then test for the bacteria?”

  “There’s a polymerase chain reaction or PCR test for the spores,” Agnes said. “We don’t do that in micro, but I’m sure Ted Lynch in the DNA lab could help you. Do you have something you want to test for spores?”

  “Not yet,” Jack said.

  “Uh oh,” Chet moaned. “I don’t like the sound of that. You’re not planning on going out in the field, are you?”

  “I don’t know,” Jack admitted. He was still in a daze. A case of inhalational anthrax in New York was as unexpected as plague.

  “Have you forgotten what happened to you last time you got involved with infectious-disease field work?” Chet asked. “Let me remind you: you were almost killed.”

  “Thanks, Agnes,” Jack said to the micro department head. He ignored Chet. He turned back to his desk and pushed away the files relating to the prisoner-in-custody death which Calvin wanted completed ASAP. Jack slipped the contents of Jason Papparis’s file from the folder and thumbed through the papers until he came across Janice Jaeger’s forensic investigator’s report.

  “Hey, I’m talking to you,” Chet said. It always irked him the way Jack could tune him out.

  “Here it is,” Jack said. He held out Janice’s report with his finger pointing to the sentence that said that Mr. Papparis was in the rug business. “Look!”

  “I see it,” Chet said with annoyance. “But did you hear me?”

  “The problem is we don’t know what kind of rugs,” Jack said. “I think that could b
e important.” Jack turned the report over. Just as Janice had said, there was the name and phone number of the house doctor who’d taken care of Mr. Papparis.

  Jack spun around and picked up his phone. He dialed the number and got the central switchboard of the Bronx General Hospital.

  “Fine,” Chet said with a wave of dismissal. “You don’t have to listen to me. Hell, I know that you’ll just do whatever you want no matter what anybody else says.” Disgusted, Chet turned back to his own work.

  “Could you page Dr. Kevin Fowler for me?” Jack asked the hospital operator. While he waited he held the phone in the crook of his neck so he could lift down his copy of Harrison’s Principles of Internal Medicine. The pages of the chapter on infectious diseases were dog-eared.

  Jack turned to the section on anthrax. There were only two pages devoted to it. He was almost through reading when Dr. Kevin Fowler came on the line.

  Jack explained who he was and why he was calling. Dr. Fowler was dumbfounded at the diagnosis.

  “I’ve never seen a case of anthrax,” Dr. Fowler admitted. “Of course, I’m only a resident, so I haven’t had much experience.”

  “Now you’re a member of a select group,” Jack said. “I was just reading there’s only been a handful of cases over the last decade here in the U.S., and all of those were the more common cutaneous form. The inhalational variety like Mr. Papparis had used to be called woolsorters’disease. The patients contracted it from contaminated animal hair and hides.”

  “I can tell you it was an extremely rapid downhill course,” Dr. Fowler said. “I won’t mind if I never have to take care of another case. I guess we get to see everything here in New York.”

  “Did you do a history on the patient?” Jack asked.

  “No, not at all,” Dr. Fowler said. “I was just called when the patient got into respiratory distress. All I knew about the history was what was in the chart.”

  “So you don’t know what kind of rug business the patient was in?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Dr. Fowler said. “Why don’t you try the attending physician, Dr. Heitman.”

  “Have you got a telephone number for him?” Jack asked.

  “Sure,” Dr. Fowler said. “He’s one of our staff attendings.”

  Jack placed a call to Dr. Heitman but learned that he had been merely covering for Dr. Bernard Goldstein and that Mr. Jason Papparis was actually Dr. Goldstein’s patient. Jack then called Dr. Goldstein. It took a few minutes to get the doctor on the line, and he was less than friendly and rather impatient. Jack wasted no time in asking his question.

  “What do you mean what kind of rug business?” Dr. Goldstein asked irritably. He obviously didn’t like being interrupted in the middle of his day for what sounded to him like a frivolous inquiry. His secretary had been hesitant to bother the doctor even after Jack said that the call was an emergency.

  “I want to know what kind of rugs he sold,” Jack said. “Did he sell broadloom or something else?”

  “He never said and I never asked,” Dr. Goldstein said. Then he hung up.

  “He’s in the wrong profession,” Jack said out loud. Jack found the identification sheet in Papparis’s folder and saw that the body had been identified by the decedent’s wife, Helen Papparis. There was a phone number on the sheet and Jack dialed it. He’d been hoping to avoid intruding on the family.

  Helen Papparis turned out to be exquisitely polite and restrained. If she was in mourning, she hid it well, although Jack suspected her extreme politeness was her method of dealing with her loss. After Jack offered his sympathies and explained his official position as well as the nature of the exotic diagnosis, he asked his question about Mr. Papparis’s business.

  “The Corinthian Rug Company dealt exclusively in handmade rugs,” Helen said.

  “From where?” Jack asked.

  “Mostly from Turkey,” Helen said. Jack detected a catch in her voice. “A few of the fur rugs came from Greece, but the vast majority came from Turkey.”

  “So he dealt with furs and hides as well as woven rugs,” Jack said with academic satisfaction. The mystery was rapidly being resolved.

  “That’s correct,” Helen said.

  Jack’s eyes dropped to the open textbook in front of him. Right in the middle of the anthrax section it described how the animal form of anthrax was a problem in a number of countries, including Turkey, and that animal products, particularly goat’s hair, could be contaminated with the spores.

  “Did he deal with goatskins?” Jack asked.

  “Yes, of course,” Helen said. “Sheepskins and goatskins were a large part of his business.”

  “Well, I think we’ve solved the mystery,” Jack said. He explained the association to Helen.

  “That’s ironic,” Helen said without a hint of rancor. “Those rugs have provided us with a comfortable life, including sending our only daughter to an Ivy League college.”

  “Did Mr. Papparis get any recent shipments?” Jack asked.

  “About a month ago.”

  “Are any of those rugs in your home?”

  “No,” Helen said. “Jason felt it was enough to deal with them during the day. He refused to have any of them around the house.”

  “Under the circumstances that was a smart decision,” Jack said. “Where are these rugs? Have many been sold?”

  Helen explained that the rugs had gone into a warehouse in Queens, and she doubted many had been sold. She explained to Jack that Jason’s business was wholesale and that shipments came in months before they were needed. She also said there no employees at the warehouse or at the office.

  “Sounds like a one-man operation,” Jack said.

  “Very much so,” Helen said.

  Jack thanked her profusely and reiterated his sympathies.

  Then he suggested that she contact her doctor about possible prophylactic antibiotics even though he explained that she was probably not at risk since person-to-person spread did not occur and she hadn’t been exposed to the hides. Finally he told her she’d probably be hearing from other Department of Health professionals. She thanked him for the call, and they disconnected.

  Jack swung around to face Chet, who couldn’t have helped but overhear the conversation.

  “Sounds like you solved that one pretty quickly,” Chet said. “At least now you don’t have to put your life at risk by going out there in the field.”

  “I’m disappointed,” Jack said with a sigh.

  “What can you possibly be disappointed about?” Chet asked with exasperated disbelief. “You’ve made a brilliant and rapid diagnosis and you’ve even solved what could have been a difficult epidemiological enigma.”

  “That’s the problem,” Jack said dispiritedly. “It was too easy, too pat. With my last exotic disease it was a real mystery. I like challenges.”

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Chet said. “I wish some of my cases would have such nice tidy endings.”

  Jack grabbed his open textbook of medicine and stuck it under Chet’s nose. He pointed to a specific paragraph and told his officemate to read it. Chet did as he was told. When he was finished, he looked up.

  “Now that was an epidemiological challenge,” Jack said. “Can you imagine? A slew of inhalation anthrax cases from spores leaking out of a bioweapons factory! What a disaster!”

  “Where’s Sverdlovsk?” Chet asked.

  “How should I know?” Jack commented. “Obviously someplace in the former Soviet Union.”

  “I’d never heard about that 1979 incident,” Chet said. He reread the paragraph. “What a joke! The Russians tried to pass it off as exposure to contaminated meat.”

  “From a forensic point of view, it would have been a fascinating case,” Jack said. “Certainly a lot more provocative than picking up a case in a rug salesman.”

  Jack got to his feet. After appearing so animated earlier, he now looked depressed.

  “Where are you going?” Chet asked.
>
  “Down to see Calvin,” Jack said. “He told me that if my case turned out to be anthrax he wanted to know right away.”

  “Cheer up!” Chet urged. “You look like death warmed over.”

  Jack tried to smile. He walked down to the elevator and pushed the button. What he didn’t tell Chet was that his restless mood hadn’t resulted only from the anthrax case’s resolving itself so easily. It was also about the mystery with Laurie. Why had she called at 4:30 A.M. to make a dinner date? And why was Lou coming, too?

  As the elevator descended, Jack tried to think how he could get back at her. The only idea that came to mind was to buy her a Christmas present over the next few days and then start giving her confusing hints. Laurie was always wildly curious about presents and the suspense ate at her. Two months of suspense would surely be adequate revenge.

  Emerging on the first floor, Jack felt better. The Christmas present idea was sounding better and better, although now he’d have to think of something to buy.

  Calvin was in his office working on the reams of paper that passed over his desk every day. His hand was so large that the way his fingers had to hold his pen looked comical. He glanced up when Jack approached the desk.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to bet on that anthrax diagnosis?” Jack asked.

  “Don’t tell me it was positive?” Calvin leaned back in his chair, and it protested loudly under his weight.

  “According to Agnes it was anthrax,” Jack said. “Cultures are pending.”

  “Holy crap!” Calvin exclaimed. “This is going to raise some hackles in the Department of Health.”

  “Actually I don’t think that’s the case,” Jack said.

  “Oh?” Calvin replied. Jack never failed to surprise him. “Why the hell not?”

  “Because the disease does not spread person to person, and because it was an occupational exposure limited to the decedent. The source is apparently safely locked up in a warehouse in Queens.”

  “I’m all ears,” Calvin said. “Talk to me!”

  Jack explained the Corinthian Rug Company connection, and the recent shipment of rugs and goatskins from Turkey. Calvin nodded as Jack spoke.