Invasive Procedures (12 page)

Director Irving handed Frank a slip of paper. “These are the names that were downloaded.”

Frank scanned the list. There were a dozen names in all. “So these could be potential targets for a Healer?”

Atkins shrugged. “Maybe. Who knows? It might not even be the Healers hacking the system.”

“It’s worth following up on,” said Carter. “We should contact these people, see if any Healers have come by. If so, we can be fairly confident that it was the Healers who hacked the database.”

“Or,” said Riggs, “we
don’t
contact these people but instead post a few agents at these addresses and have the agents watch for any suspicious activity. That way, if a Healer
does
show up, we can take him on-site.”

There was silence as Irving considered this. Then he asked for the list, and Frank returned it to him. Irving gave the list to Atkins. “I want a team at each of these addresses. Don’t talk to these people. If they know we’re looking for Healers, they might warn the Healers and tell them to steer clear. The moment our boys see anyone who could possibly be one of these wackos, they call it in and we rush the place.”

Atkins nodded. “Yes, sir.” Then he hurried out of the room.

Irving leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. “Word on the street is that you have this virus of ours licked, Frank. You don’t mind if I call you Frank, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“Good. So, this countervirus of yours, it’s the answer to our prayers?”

“As I explained to Agent Riggs and Agent Carter,” Frank said, “the countervirus has not yet been tested on human subjects.”

Irving shrugged. “There’s always a first for everything. Riggs and Carter have told you about the crowd we have in our infirmary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want the ones still infected with the virus to be treated immediately. After you’ve had a chance to settle in, that is.”

“Of course.”

Irving swiveled in his chair and picked up an ink pen off his desk, twirling it in his fingers. “We’re taking a giant risk on you, Frank. I’m
not one to let outsiders in here to fiddle with our business. Makes me nervous.”

“I understand, sir. I’ll do my job and be as unintrusive as possible.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” said Irving. “We take our work very seriously. These Healers are keeping us up at night. They’re very disturbing people.”

“I agree, sir.”

“You’ve seen their little book of scripture, then, I take it?”

Frank nodded.

“Quite the read, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir. It’s the piece of this puzzle I find most surprising, in fact.”

“Oh? Why’s that?”

“Because it puts the Healers way outside the mainstream, sir. Normal people would shy away from this kind of thing. New scripture. Prophecies and prophets. It’s all very mystical. People typically find that off-putting, frightening even. I find it hard to believe that anyone would allow a Healer to treat them.”

“Oh, I agree. But keep in mind who these patients are, Frank,” said Irving. “We’re talking about genetic diseases. Most of these people have already been through the wringer. They’ve tried every medical option, seen every doctor, taken every drug. And nothing worked. They’re out of options. But the pain is still there. They still suffer. So when a Healer comes along they think, What have I got to lose?”

“Well that’s just it, sir. They have a great deal to lose. Healers aren’t offering a bottle of Tylenol. This isn’t some proven treatment that four out of five doctors recommend. It’s a virus, completely without credentials, as far as I know. Not to mention extremely dangerous.”

Irving set the ink pen back on the desk and looked at Frank intently. “Have you ever known someone with a genetic disease, Frank? Intimately, I mean. A loved one? A friend?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I suspect you’ve never had them open up to you, tell you what it feels like to be stuck with something medicine can’t fix? Never had to watch them wiggle in pain? Never wondered to yourself why there wasn’t a damn thing you could do about it?”

“No, sir.”

“Then you’ve never seen true desperation, Frank. You’ve never felt as helpless as these people and their families do.”

Frank tensed. Was Irving needling him? Surely the BHA had researched Frank’s service records before giving him access to their operations. Irving must know that Frank
had
suffered a great loss, that Frank
had
experienced true desperation, that Frank knew
exactly
what it felt like to watch someone dear to you suffer. Rachel hadn’t had a genetic disease, but leukemia was just as severe a diagnosis. Was Irving so callous a person that he’d wave Frank’s loss in front of him just to make a point? Or had he truly never seen Frank’s files? Either way, Frank wouldn’t let the man rile him.

“I see your point, sir,” said Frank. “I merely meant to suggest that it’s surprising a street medicine engineered by a fringe religion could proliferate at all.”

Irving surprised Frank with a laugh. “Street medicine. I like that.” His laughed tapered, then he stood and came around the front of the desk, his hands in his pockets. “Don’t get me wrong, Frank. I’m not defending these Healers. I think they’re as cracked as you do. They wear black capes, for crying out loud. First time I saw photos, I thought we were dealing with vampires.” He laughed again and looked to Agents Carter and Riggs, who took his glance as a cue and tossed in a few laughs of their own. Frank merely forced a smile.

“My point,” Irving said, “is this. Don’t concern yourself with the psychology of these people. That isn’t your job. You’re here as a medical advisor. I will value your counsel on that subject and that subject only. I want to make that point very clear.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And you will operate within the parameters that I define, and not interfere with any other aspect of this agency. I can’t afford to have someone telling us how to do things around here. That’s
my
job. I was appointed to this position by the president for a reason. Do we understand one another?”

“Completely, sir.”

“Excellent.” He clapped his hands together. “Then let’s get to it.”

Frank followed Carter and Riggs out of Irving’s office and into a bright cylindrical corridor.

“He likes you,” said Carter.

“Who?” said Frank. “Director Irving?”

“No question,” said Riggs. “He only had to tell you once that he was a presidential appointee.”

“First time I met him,” said Carter, “he told me four times in as many minutes that he was a personal friend of the president.”

“He seemed pleasant enough,” said Frank.

They reached a set of closed doors. Carter swiped his card through the reader, and the door opened.

“You caught him on a good day,” said Riggs. “He threw a stapler at me once.”

Frank looked to Carter for confirmation, who nodded solemnly and then led them out onto a loading dock. A sleek subway car waited on a track in front of them. It extended down a dark tunnel to the right and disappeared from sight.

“How big is this place?” Frank said with wonder.

“We’ve just left the Command Center,” said Riggs. “This will take us to T4, our operational facility. The nuts and bolts of the BHA.”

“Where the real work is done,” Carter said with a wink.

A uniformed guard slid open the subway car door and motioned them inside. Frank and the two agents each found a seat and fastened their safety harnesses. The guard slid the door closed and went to a computer console on the loading dock. A female automated voice sounded inside the car. “Please be seated. This train is about to depart.”

With a slight jolt the subway car pulled away from the loading dock and then quickly picked up speed down the track.

Riggs said, “T4 houses the infirmary and our Level 4 containment site. We keep them as far away from the Command Center as possible as a safety precaution.”

That made sense to Frank. In fact, if he had his way at Fort Detrick, Level 4 would be a separate building on the most isolated plot of earth on base, thus minimizing the risk of an outbreak should, heaven forbid, containment fail.

The subway ride lasted a good ten minutes, and since the car had moved at a brisk clip, Frank figured they were well outside the city by now. The loading dock they stopped at was identical to the one they had left, and if not for the change in guard, Frank would have thought the car had simply traveled in a huge circle.

The guard saluted Riggs and Carter and looked genuinely pleased to see them. “Welcome home, sirs.” He saw the small suitcase Frank was pulling. “May I take your bag, Dr. Hartman?”

So they were expecting him. “No, thank you. I can manage.”

The guard escorted them to another door and returned to his station. Carter repeated the security check yet a third time, and the doors opened, revealing another expansive room nearly equal in size to the Command Center but far more tranquil. No computers, no monitors, no furniture at all, just stark white walls and bright white light. A few BHA employees in matching black uniforms walked by, the heels of their boots clicking on the polished floor and echoing through the chamber.

“Welcome to T4,” said Riggs, leading them inside. “Everything you need is housed here, Frank, including your barracks.”

“Barracks? Your staff live here?”

“We’re completely contained in this facility. Mess hall, barracks, combat training, and workout gyms. Even an on-site sewage-treatment plant and enough water tanks to last us at least ninety days. Basically, we could stay down here for weeks without ever going to the surface.”

“Why underground?” asked Frank. “Containment?”

“Millions of people live in LA County,” said Carter. “You can imagine the disaster that would result if a Level 4 substance leaked into the open. The earth between us and the surface is simply another shield of protection.”

“And this way,” said Riggs, “if there
was
a leak, the only people who would die would be us. And since we’re already underground, no one has to bury us.” He winked at Carter.

“Right,” said Carter, smiling. “We’d be in the world’s biggest coffin. All they’d have to do is a make a little gravestone above us. ‘Here Lies the BHA.’ ”

Frank allowed himself to grin but didn’t feel particularly amused. The thought of having no escape should a leak occur wasn’t comforting. To change the subject he stepped forward and took in his surroundings. A series of corridors was in front of them, each extending at least a hundred yards, with multiple connecting passageways that led off in every direction. It was a massive underground complex, larger than any federal facility Frank had ever seen, aboveground or below.

“Come on,” said Riggs, checking his watch. “We had the countervirus taken to the infirmary. Let’s see if you’re worth the trip.”

Monica wasn’t sure which bothered her more—that she had found a stranger in Wyatt’s room playing video games with him or that the stranger in question, this Dr. Kouichi Yoshida, was being so friendly. It felt off. So far the only people she had met here were Galen, the Healers, and other prisoners like herself. Of those, the only people who had seemed happy were the bad kind. And right now, Yoshida had a smile right out of a Colgate commercial, all teeth, ear to ear. He creeped Monica out.

“Perhaps we could talk in my office,” Yoshida said. “Wyatt can stay here and play video games with Lichen.”

Monica looked over her shoulder at Lichen, who, big as a bear, stood watching from the hallway. She felt Wyatt’s fingers dig into her side and knew that Wyatt considered hanging out with Lichen as bad an idea as she did.

“Some other time, perhaps,” she said. “Wyatt and I have had a traumatic day. I’d rather be alone with him right now, thank you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Yoshida said, waving his hand dismissively and moving for the door. “You two will have plenty of time to see each other. Besides, I should bring you up to speed on all the equipment before the surgeries.”

He stood in the doorway now, facing her, that same vacant smile on
his face. With Lichen looming behind him, Yoshida looked embarrassingly small. He was about five-and-a-half feet tall with straight black hair parted down the middle. A pair of small, round silver spectacles framed his unblinking eyes. Beneath his white lab coat he wore a tacky Hawaiian shirt with about twenty colors more than necessary.

“What surgeries?” said Monica.

“You see?” said Yoshida. “You
do
have a lot of questions. Come on, I’ll lead the way.” He turned away from the doorway and disappeared from view.

“Don’t go, Mom,” said Wyatt quietly, still clinging to her. “Don’t leave me alone with him.” He was peeking around her at Lichen.

Monica took both of his hands in hers and knelt in front of him.

Lichen said, “Wyatt can stay here by himself. He doesn’t need me to watch over him. I will accompany you and Dr. Yoshida.”

Monica felt lightheaded. She wanted nothing more than to be with and comfort Wyatt. And yet she feared that if she wasn’t completely compliant, it might have negative repercussions for them both. The memory of Jonathan’s limp body with a tranquilizer in his neck was too vivid a one to forget.

She rubbed a hand down Wyatt’s arm, straightening his shirtsleeve and giving him what little comfort she could. “I’ll only be gone a few minutes,” she said. “I’ll make sure no one bothers you. When I get back, we’ll play head-to-head.” She nodded at the TV. “You can blast me with a potato gun.”

He glanced at the screen, then turned back. “Five minutes?”

“Five minutes,” she said.

Yoshida was waiting out in the hall, the grin on his face not the least bit diminished. “Your Wyatt’s a real charmer,” he said. “Fast with his fingers, too.” He mimed using a game controller.

“Where’s your office?” Monica said, changing the subject. The less attention given to Wyatt, the better.

“This way,” said Yoshida, going in a direction Monica had not yet explored. She followed and heard Lichen’s heavy footsteps behind her.

They went down a dimly lit hallway, through a large room that looked as if it could have once been a cafeteria, and down a flight of stairs.