Читать книгу Fatal Prescription - Don Pendleton - Страница 8

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Stevenson Dynamics

Fairfax County, Arlington, Virginia

William J. Stevenson sat in the padded leather chair holding a remote in his right hand. He leaned forward on the large mahogany table, rested his elbows on the polished surface and clicked on the television.

Stevenson was in his mid-fifties with a well-trimmed Vandyke, chiseled cheekbones and a tall, powerful-looking body. His face was perfectly tanned and his dark brown hair was coiffed to perfection.

A glass sat on a coaster in front of him and a heavyset, balding man with glasses sat to his left. To Stevenson’s right, a thin, younger man in a light blue suit stood nervously rubbing his jaw, as they all watched the prototype for the commercial begin to play.

Two attractive women, dressed in typical soccer-mom attire, escorted a group of children through a CGI image of an idyllic, green pasture. The women smiled with bright, ultra-white teeth and conversed in inaudible sentences as the announcer’s mellifluous voice-over listed the benefits of taking Pacifica 7, “the surest safeguard against the Keller Flu Virus that you can get.” The scene shifted to a pair of young girls on some swings, their moms laughing as they pushed the children forward with light, exuberant exertions.

“Do not take Pacifica if you have inflammatory bowel syndrome,” the announcer continued, speaking in a rapid, subdued monotone. “Certain studies have shown that adverse side effects may be noticed in certain individuals. These side effects may include vomiting, diarrhea, swelling of lymph glands... Tell your doctor if you experience shortness of breath or rapid heartbeat. In rare cases, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke and death may occur. Pacifica should not be used in combination with any non-recommended medications, and should not be taken in dosages exceeding prescribed limits. If any of these symptoms occur, notify your physician. In case of life-threatening reactions, consult immediate emergency room hospitalization.”

Stevenson frowned and pressed the pause button on the remote.

“What the hell?” he said, emphasizing the last word. “Inflammatory bowel syndrome, shortness of breath, arrhythmia, death... Christ. What are you trying to do? Kill the damn drug before it even gets approved by the damn FDA?”

The standing man’s face jerked into a quick smile. “Well, sir, we are required by the FCC to verbally mention any potential hazards or risks.”

Stevenson stood slowly, stretching himself to his full, six-foot-seven inches, and then threw the remote at him. The other man tried to duck, but it bounced off his face, breaking apart and ejecting two small AAA batteries. His knees buckled slightly and his face contorted into a wince, which he immediately tried to transform into a smile.

“But, Mr. Stevenson, sir—”

“Rod, get this weak asshole out of my sight,” Stevenson ordered, his voice laced with derision.

Rodney Allen Nelson stood, waving his hand to usher the other man toward the door. Nelson’s face showed a placid, conciliatory expression. The younger man winced, then nodded, holding his cheek as he headed for the door. As it closed behind him, Stevenson picked up the glass and threw it at the LCD screen. The frozen image buckled and distorted slightly, and then went black as the glass shattered against it, leaving a trail of spilled liquid and broken shards.

“Jesus Christ, Bill,” Nelson said. “That’s the third TV you’ve destroyed this week. You trying to break Elvis’s old record?”

Stevenson’s face was still a mask of livid rage.

“Don’t mess with me, Rod,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for assholes or jokes.”

Just then they heard a light knock on the door. After a few seconds it opened and a startlingly attractive woman stepped inside. She had strawberry blond hair, and her blue dress clung to an obviously enhanced body.

“Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson,” she said.

Stevenson glanced at her, his eyes sweeping over her breasts. “What?”

“It’s Mr. Quarry, sir,” she said, hesitating slightly before adding, “He’s on Skype.”

“Skype?” Stevenson looked at the shattered television screen and swore. The woman looked perplexed.

Nelson stepped forward, his hand held in the same conciliatory pose as before. “Jenna, have the call rerouted to the situation room.”

The woman nodded and slipped out the door.

Nelson turned back to Stevenson with a wry grin.

“I hope it’s not bad news,” he said. “I was looking forward to watching some live news streams later on that TV.”

Stevenson snorted a laugh and they headed for the door. “Come on,” he said. “I want to hear what he has to say, and it better be good. What the hell time is it over there, anyway?”

Nelson glanced at his watch. “Around half-past midnight.”

* * *

STEVENSON WATCHED AS Jenna Callahan adjusted the large screen toward the conference table and fingered the PTZ lens along the top border. She pressed some buttons on a remote and then handed it to Rodney Nelson. Callahan turned and smiled at Stevenson as the television screen illuminated and the pigments brightened. An image of a man appeared. The broad, flat plains of his face and shaved head looked about 120 times their normal size. The background behind the face showed only darkness.

“Thank you, Jenna,” Nelson said. “That’ll be all.”

Callahan smiled at both men, turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

Stevenson’s eyes, fixed on her buttocks as she walked, now turned to the large screen. “This better be good news, Quarry,” he said, his voice low and guttural.

The face on the screen was distorted momentarily by a series of lines, then came back. “There’s been a slight development, sir.”

“‘Development’?” Stevenson repeated. “What the hell does that mean?” He and Nelson exchanged a glance.

“Everything’s going according to the professor’s estimates,” Quarry said. “But...”

Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “But what, damn it?”

Quarry’s image froze again, distorted by a series of horizontal, colored lines. When he came back, part of the transmission was indistinct. “—infected. He was taken from the village and transported to a hospital in Luanda.”

“What? Who? You faded out.”

“An American aide,” Quarry said. “He and his crew were in the bush giving some kind of inoculations. Measles, I think. We didn’t anticipate that he’d hear about the outbreak and come to check it out.”

Stevenson gritted his teeth. “Damn.” He looked to Nelson, who sidled over to get into the camera range.

“All right, Shadrock,” Nelson said. “We’re having a little trouble receiving you.”

“Are you sure this is totally encrypted?” Stevenson asked.

Nelson looked at him, smiled and nodded. He then turned back to the screen where Quarry’s large face loomed. “Where’s Dr. Debussey?”

“Outside the tent,” Quarry said. His big hand appeared and he jerked his thumb behind him. “I wanted to check with you first. Want me to bring him in?”

Nelson looked to Stevenson, who nodded.

On the huge screen, Quarry stood and walked toward the darkened area behind him. He flipped up a canvass flap and said something. After a few seconds a pear-shaped, professorial type, in similar dark, jungle fatigues that Quarry was wearing, stepped through the opening and waddled toward the camera.

He sat and looked around nervously. Quarry’s massive upper body leaned forward, dwarfing the other man as he gave him an earpiece.

“Just talk into there, Doctor,” Quarry said. “You can see him in the monitor.”

“Arnold?” Stevenson said. “Can you hear me?”

The scientist nodded. His chin sagged and he looked exhausted.

“Give me a status report,” Stevenson said.

Debussey took a deep breath. “The mist dispersion system and the accelerated incubation rate seem to have functioned exactly as we estimated they would. Twelve hours from exposure to onset. The antidote inoculation for the team has also proved effective in that none of us has been infected, despite initial exposure. I need to start the antiviral inoculations for the villagers.”

Stevenson nodded. “What about this other bullshit? This aide?”

Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”

“Who took him?” Stevenson asked.

“The other aides. They’re working in a Doctors Without Borders program.”

Stevenson bit his lower lip slightly. “How serious is his exposure? What’s his prognosis?”

“Well, given that he’s already most likely been given a range of standard inoculations prior to coming here, I would imagine he’d fall into our Category Two.” Debussey paused and licked his lips. “I can go to the hospital and give him—”

“Don’t give him shit,” Stevenson said. “No contact with him, understand? I don’t want anybody to know you’re there.”

Debussey’s eyebrows rose in twin arches over his glasses, his image freezing just as Quarry’s had moments before. When he came back on, Debussey was already speaking, unaware that the first part of his wording had been unintelligible. “—to review the effectiveness of the adjusted virus’s prescribed life span. Of course, if the antidote is administered with a dosage of greater than 250 milligrams—”

“Hold on, for Christ’s sake,” Stevenson said. “Half of what you say isn’t coming through. Just put Quarry back on.”

Debussey’s mouth drew into a pout but he nodded and stood. He began turning and then turned back, sticking his face close to the camera lens.

“Do you want me to accelerate the administration of the antidote to the villagers at this time?” he asked.

“I’ll advise,” Stevenson said. “Now put Quarry back on. Alone.”

Debussey disappeared from the screen momentarily and then could be seen walking to exit the tent. Quarry’s big face and shoulders appeared again.

“Is that pussy gone?” Stevenson asked.

Quarry nodded. “I told him to wait outside.”

“What are the chances that infected aide can be taken care of quietly?” Stevenson asked. “Over there.”

Quarry shook his head. “Right now it’d be pretty hard. The capital was already crawling with journalists covering the Doctors Without Borders inoculation program. Word is they’re regrouping to check on the outbreak shortly, once he arrives at the hospital.”

“Shit,” Stevenson swore. “How the hell are we going to contain this now?”

“We’d better go into damage control mode right away,” Nelson said.

“Damn straight,” Stevenson confirmed. He looked back at the screen. “Who’s this infected aide? What’s his name?”

“Frank Clayton,” Quarry said.

Stevenson brought his hands to his face and massaged his temples. “Okay, let’s get a handle on this. First, we need to find out where this guy Clayton is and how to deal with him. We also need to wrap things up before word gets out. This thing has to be contained immediately.”

“Yes, sir. Dr. Debussey’s preparing a load of antiviral shots to curtail things in the village.”

“Forget that,” Stevenson said. “Go with the quick-action plan we discussed.”

Quarry’s face twitched. “You sure, sir?”

“Yes, I am,” Stevenson said in a clipped tone. “And don’t ever question me again.”

“Sorry, sir.”

Stevenson glared at the image on the screen, hoping his anger would be effectively conveyed by the camera. “Make it look like the work of frightened locals.”

“Understood, sir.”

“And then get Debussey on a plane back here ASAP,” Stevenson said. “The sooner, the better.”

Quarry nodded. “He won’t be happy. Like I said, he’s been preparing the antivirals to give to the entire village.”

“That goddamn idiot. Tell him you’re leaving a team behind to do that. Just get him out of there, and then take care of business as planned. Got it?”

Quarry’s face showed no emotion. “Yes, sir.”

Stevenson snapped his fingers and Nelson handed him the remote.

“Get back here as soon as you’re done,” Stevenson directed, and pressed the button to end the transmission. He held the remote in his hand for a moment then turned and hurled it against the wall. It broke apart, spilling batteries and plastic backings.

Nelson chuckled. “Well, at least Elvis spared the TV this time.”

Stevenson eyed him sharply and then smirked. “Good old Rod... Always able to make me laugh, even in the darkest of times.”

“What’s there to be mad about?” Nelson flashed a wide grin. “From the sound of it, Debussey’s modifications to the CEZ-A2 were a complete success, and Quarry and his boys will eliminate the tribe and burn the place to the ground. He matches the local skin color, so it’ll just look like another case of vigilante action in the face of indigenous hysteria.”

“Indigenous hysteria,” Stevenson said. “I like that. Has a nice spin to it. We’ll have to use that phrase somewhere down the line.” Stevenson paused and took a breath, a look of ecstasy in his eyes. “We made a good choice for our field test. It’s a damn good thing that life’s so cheap and those bastards are so stupid.”

Nelson’s grin widened. “Now is that any way for the man who’s going to be controlling the President of the United States to talk?”

Stevenson grinned back, basking in the ingenuity of his master plan. Yet he knew he had a ways to go before he could bring it to fruition.

“How long before the Talon checks in?”

Nelson glanced at his watch again. “Eight or nine hours. Remember, it’s still nighttime over there now.”

Stevenson nodded. “Yeah, yeah, I know. This country wasn’t built in a day.”

“But pretty soon you’ll own it, so you can change that,” Nelson said.