25. Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter twenty-five
Trevor caught himself humming the Mission Impossible theme as he piloted the Alfa Romeo around a curve in the roadway.
According to a paper map he’d picked up from a filling station, the Serbian village should be just up ahead.
His phone was still off. He couldn’t risk turning it on, not until he had some evidence that Sam’s suspicions about a bioweapon were correct.
And if Sam was wrong, well then he was going to be in a bit of a tight corner.
Just how much trouble remained to be seen.
He slowed the sport coupe down as he navigated a hairpin switchback.
An empty paper sack lay on the passenger seat.
Trevor had stopped for protein bars and sodas at a petrol station.
The car, beautiful as it may be, couldn’t run on an empty tank and neither could Trevor.
He picked up a can of energy drink with a Serbian label and chugged down the last of it.
He should have forced himself to sleep the entire flight.
It was now late and fatigue was catching up, but the protein and energy drink—probably full of chemicals that would make his heart explode later in life—helped drive out the worst of the mental cobwebs.
He saw the lights from the various investigating agencies long before he saw the village.
A pale white glow rimmed the tops of dark pines in the distance.
It looked like some sort of alien landing site hidden deep in the woods.
Next, he heard the industrial generators set up by CDC and WHO.
Both organizations investigated outbreaks in remote corners of the globe and were equipped with their own power banks.
Recently, advancements in solar technology meant they were moving increasingly to solid state batteries, but at night when the sun went down, good old fashioned diesel was still the power of choice.
This far out in the wilderness, those generators could be heard for miles.
Several large trucks were parked against the curb on the roadway.
They were being used to transport equipment in and out of the site.
Trevor had to weave around them. Tires rumbled over a mix of asphalt, gravel, and sometimes dirt.
A truck driver, leaning against his cab and smoking a cigarette, waved.
Trevor waved back as he continued along the path. He encountered the first checkpoint half a mile outside the village. Local authorities had set up a roadblock. Half a dozen police officers were controlling who went in and out.
He regretted his choice of automobiles. The Alfa Romeo was bright and ostentatious.
It would stand out like a sore thumb in the middle of a backwater Serbian village, especially one full of WHO investigators, probably driving dented Range Rovers covered in dirt.
Trevor hadn’t been thinking about any of that when he’d rented the car.
He should have. It was a mistake. And in this business mistakes can be deadly.
That was a lesson they had drilled into the recruits at the Farm. One mistake can be your last.
He mentally scolded himself for the decision to rent a flashy ride as he eased to a stop in front of the local bulls. One of the uniformed officers came over and hooked his thumbs in his belt. Trevor flashed his government ID, one of many. “U.S. State Department attached to the CDC.”
It was a moment before the local officers could track down a cop who spoke decent English, and Trevor went through his cover story again. The officer gave it deep thought, which looked like heavy work, then finally waved Trevor through.
The next checkpoint was run by WHO and this one proved much harder to pass.
World Health Organization generally doesn’t like the American CDC horning in on their territory and Trevor’s State Department credentials didn’t carry as much weight with the WHO officials.
Trevor spent the next fifteen minutes going back and forth with a WHO representative, trying to convince the man that he had vital information, and needed to get through to his investigators.
“You’ll need a hazmat suit from here on,” the WHO rep finally said. He went to a small tent and emerged a moment later with PPG in a large clear plastic container.
Trevor parked the car, pocketed the keys, then stood at the trunk as he ripped the seal off the hazmat gear.
He had no training with personal protective gear and if any of the WHO people bothered to watch him, they’d know right away.
Good thing he’d claimed to be with the State Department and not the CDC.
It took Trevor several minutes to figure out how to get his shoes down inside the suit, then get it zipped up around him.
He donned the head gear, hoped he had it all on correctly, and started along the path toward a third checkpoint.
This one was simply a woman with a clipboard marking down everyone’s name, which organization they were with, and if they were bringing anything in or out of the site. Trevor gave her the last name Langencamp, and his State Department cover legend.
The village looked like something out of a disaster film.
Black body bags lined the main road of the tiny town.
Each bag had a label taped to it, encased in clear plastic to protect it from rain.
Large banks of lights had been strung along the winding path through the center of the village, each connected by thick yellow power cables attached to a series of generators humming loudly.
Large tents had been erected in open spaces between the buildings.
CDC used yellow tents. WHO used blue. Most of the tents were separated, like the two competing organizations didn’t dare get to close to the enemy.
They had signs in English, French, and German.
Apparently neither organization had been equipped with Serbian signage.
Most of the work had stopped for the night, but a few scientists in space suits still hurried back and forth between tents.
Trevor started toward the American side.
He didn’t even know what he was looking for, yet.
“Can I help you?”
Trevor turned.
A man in his late fifties with a beard and a fogged-up face mask had emerged from one of the yellow tents. He had a laptop clamped under one arm and a small metal case in his hand. His brows pinched over the bridge of a hooked nose.
“Trevor Langencamp, State Department.”
“Just what I need,” the man said to himself. “Another bureaucrat underfoot.”
“I understand your concern, doctor,” Trevor said. “I promise not to get in the way, but Washington wants answers. There are people on the Hill starting to worry, as you can probably imagine.”
“As well they should be. This has all the earmarks of something man-made.”
Trevor’s brows went up. “You’re sure?”
“I will be, soon as I get the results back from my latest tests.” The man held up the metal briefcase as proof. “Despite what those hacks at the WHO are selling, this is not natural, and it didn’t come from contaminated drinking water.”
“When will you have the results of your test?” Trevor asked.
“First let’s get your PPE sorted out.” The man put his case down on the ground, balanced his laptop on it, and waved Trevor over.
“You gotta make sure these are air tight,” he instructed as he used a hidden Velcro strap on Trevor’s gloves to cinch down the hazmat suit around his wrists.
He did the same at Trevor’s ankles before collecting up his laptop and case.
“Name’s Richard Shore. I’m the chief virologist on site, not counting those posers from the WHO.
You can call me Rich, which I am not by the way. ”
Trevor grinned as he followed Rich across a muddy road toward another tent. Richard said, “I’ve got to synthesize several samples and see what the reaction is to UV. It will take at least thirty minutes, but we should have definitive proof one way or another.”