Spiral

THE HUEY’S BLADES WHERE CHURNING TO LIFE AS DUNNE approached alone, ordering his retinue to stay behind. The makeshift helipad was set up in the middle of the FDR Drive, the chopper fueled and ready to take off for Fort Detrick. The airspace had been cleared within fifty miles of their flight path, and fighters scrambled to escort them.

Dunne spotted Sadie Toloff, the chief scientist of the USDA’s Foreign Disease-Weed Science Research Unit and the leader of Fort Detrick’s Uzumaki countermeasures program. Dunne knew Sadie very well. She was attractive, with short blond hair in a pageboy cut, though her features were a bit too quirky to be considered classically beautiful. She was wiry, almost nerdy, but very fit-she was a middle-distance runner in college. She completed her Ph.D. twenty years ago, on host-pathogen coevolution in cereal crops. He had known her for years, had personally approved her latest promotion, had even been her lover for a brief stretch four years ago. A mistake, they both agreed. Each was incapable of fealty to anything but the job. When a few spores from a citrus blight blew across the Atlantic on the African winds, Toloff and her team were the first responders. She was also known within a small, elite circle as Queen of the Uzumaki.

Yelling to be heard over the noise of the rotors, Toloff kept it all business. “That’s a triple-sealed Hazmat container with blood, saliva, and stool samples from the Times Square victim, along with breath samples for airborne spores. The individual containers are locked inside a steel-molybdenum vault that can withstand anything short of a nuclear blast. If the chopper goes down, that container will not, under any conceivable circumstances, breach.”

Toloff pointed to the team of four men handling the container. “Those two are from USAMRIID and the other two from my team at USDA.” She frowned. “They think us weed folks are pansies. Can’t stand that this is my show.”

Dunne nodded. USAMRIID dealt with the high-profile killers, human pathogens, such as smallpox and Ebola. The USDA team handled invasive pathogens. It wasn’t often the two organizations worked together closely, but the Uzumaki had something for everyone. “So far no fistfights?” Dunne asked.

“You wait,” she said. “Blood will flow.”

“You look beat,” Dunne said.

“I’m fine. But I’ll be better once we’re back at Detrick.” She rubbed her forehead with her palm. “What is happening, Lawrence? Some psycho woman kills Connor, then loads a Japanese kid up with what looks to hell like the Uzumaki and dumps him in Times Square? Where could she have gotten it?”

“No idea. We don’t know who she is yet. Could be the Chinese are backing her, or she could be an independent operator.”

“But why kill Connor?”

“Connor knew a lot about Uzumaki. Maybe she tortured him for information-how it could be used, what countermeasures we had.”

Toloff shook her head. “This is such a clusterfuck. Has anyone talked to Connor’s granddaughter?”

“You know her?”

“The fungus world is tiny, Lawrence. We all know each other.”

“Well, we haven’t located her yet. She left her house this morning, and no one has seen her since.”

The pilot came over. “Sirs? We leave in two.”

Dunne looked at the copter, the blades spinning up. He needed a chance to think. Away from the conference calls, the briefings. “How long’s the flight?”

“Maybe an hour and a half. You looking for a ride?”

20

JAKE DROVE FAST AS THEY SKIRTED THE MAIN CORNELL CAMPUS, the snow-laced streets and sidewalks eerily empty, the entrances blocked off by local police. It was eight-twelve a.m.-the first classes of the morning should be under way.

He continued on, going east on Route 366, past the Cornell orchards and their rows of apple trees. The fields were decorated in frost, the plants glistening white in the car’s headlights. It was arresting, the pastoral normalcy, as if this morning was like any other.

Maggie was in the seat beside him, the glowing fungus in her lap. She was all business, focused and determined, but also distant, as if a wall had gone up around her.

Vlad Glazman was in the back, the last bite of a jelly doughnut forgotten in his right hand. He preferred to ride in the backseat, for reasons he couldn’t or wouldn’t say. Jake had practically dragged him from his bed ten minutes earlier, filled a Mason jar with the lukewarm coffee he found on the stove, and grabbed the jelly doughnut from the fridge. Vlad, to put it mildly, was not a morning person, unable to function without a massive dose of caffeine and sugar. He refused to teach any morning classes. He considered it a sin to be up before eleven.

Jake waited until Vlad was tanked up, his neurons firing. Then he told him everything.

Vlad didn’t respond for what seemed like forever. Finally he sucked down the last of the coffee and leaned forward from the backseat. “Let me get this correct. Connor told you about a Japanese superweapon called-”

“The Uzumaki.”