The major's wife did not waste a word. "Paul, I need you. Judy, come watch the kids. Hurry!"
She whirled and ran. Captain Novak and his wife were right behind. When called to action, a soldier learns to ask no questions. In the kitchen of the Anderson house, the Novaks took in the scene instantly.
"Nine-one-one?" Judy Novak reached for the telephone.
"No time!" Novak cried.
"Our car!" Phyllis shouted.
Judy Novak ran up the stairs to where the two children were in their bedrooms getting ready to enjoy an evening out. Phyllis Anderson and Novak picked up the gasping major. Blood trickled from his nose. He was semiconscious, moaning, unable to speak. Carrying him, they rushed across the lawn to the parked car.
Novak took the wheel, and Phyllis climbed into the rear beside her husband. Fighting back sobs, she cradled the major's head on her shoulder and held him close. His eyes stared up at her in agony as he fought for air. Novak sped through the base, blasting the car's horn. Traffic parted like an infantry company with the tanks coming through. But by the time they reached the Weed Army Community Hospital, Maj. Keith Anderson was unconscious.
Three hours later he was dead.
In the case of sudden, unexplained death in the State of California, an autopsy was mandated. Because of the unusual circumstances of the death, the major was rushed to the morgue. But as soon as the army pathologist opened the chest cavity, massive quantities of blood erupted, spraying him.
His face turned chalk white. He jumped to his feet, snapped off his rubber gloves, and ran out of the autopsy chamber to his office.
He grabbed the phone. "Get me the Pentagon and USAMRIID. Now! Priority!"
CHAPTER ONE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
2:55 P.m., Sunday, October 12
London, England
A cold October rain slanted down on Knightsbridge where Brompton Road intersected Sloan Street. The steady stream of honking cars, taxis, and red double-decker buses turned south and made their halting way toward Sloan Square and Chelsea. Neither the rain nor the fact that business and government offices were closed for the weekend lessened the crush. The world economy was good, the shops were full, and New Labor was rocking no one's boat. Now the tourists came to London at all times of the year, and the traffic this Sunday afternoon continued to move at a snail's pace.
Impatient, U.S. Army Lt. Col. Jonathan ("Jon") Smith, M.D., stepped lightly from the slow-moving, old-style No. 19 bus two streets before his destination. The rain was letting up at last. He trotted a few quick steps beside the bus on the wet pavement and then hurried onward, leaving the bus behind.
A tall, trim, athletic man in his early forties, Smith had dark hair worn smoothly back and a high-planed face. His navy blue eyes automatically surveyed vehicles and pedestrians. There was nothing unusual about him as he strode along in his tweed jacket, cotton trousers, and trench coat. Still, women turned to look, and he occasionally noticed and smiled, but continued on his way.
He left the drizzle at Wilbraham Place and entered the foyer of the genteel Wilbraham Hotel, where he took a room every time USAMRIID sent him to a medical conference in London. Inside the old hostelry, he climbed the stairs two at a time to his second-floor room. There he rummaged through his suitcases, searching for the field reports of an outbreak of high fever among U.S. troops stationed in Manila. He had promised to show them to Dr. Chandra Uttam of the viral diseases branch of the World Health Organization.
Finally he found the reports under a pile of dirty clothes tossed into the larger suitcase. He sighed and grinned at himself--- he had never lost the messy habits acquired from his years in the field living in tents, focusing on one crisis or another.
As he rushed downstairs to return to the WHO epidemiology conference, the desk clerk called out to him.
"Colonel? There's a letter for you. It's marked `Urgent.' "
"A letter?" Who would mail him here? He looked at his wristwatch, which told him not only the hour but reminded him of the day. "On a Sunday?"
"It came by hand."
Suddenly worried, Smith took the envelope and ripped it open. It was a single sheet of white printer paper, no letterhead or return address.
Smithy,
Meet me Rock Creek park, Pierce Mill picnic grounds, midnight Monday. Urgent. Tell no one.
B
Smith's chest contracted. There was only one person