The World Beneath (Joe Tesla) (16 page)

Dear Erol,

I won’t be around this Friday. I’m sick with a fever. But don’t worry. I am taking good care of myself and will be better soon. I know that you and Melanie will have a fun time.

Your brother,

Ozan

Ozan was sick, as Rebar had been. Was it coincidence?

Joe closed his eyes. He didn’t feel sick. Tired, sad, and frightened, but not sick. Even if Rebar or the train car had some mysterious disease associated with them, Joe had barely come in contact with either. He was fine. Fine.

Fine or not, he needed to know more about why Rebar had been ill. If Joe had had contacts at the police department, he could have tried to ask for the autopsy report, but he didn’t. He didn’t have the system access to hack in and steal it, so that meant he was going to have to find a different route to that information.

He’d have to break in to the morgue.

Chapter 23

November 29, 1:07 p.m.

Biocontainment laboratory

Tuckahoe, New York

Dr. Dubois crutched into the room. The lab’s blinds were half open, and stripes of sunlight overlay the clean countertops and polished equipment. All the chemicals had been returned to their glass-fronted cabinets, every bit of glassware clean and put away where it belonged, because his assistants had known he was coming. He ran a tight ship.

He drew in a deep breath of air that smelled of formalin and disinfectant. It took him back years, to his days as a lab assistant first exploring the mysteries of biology, fascinated by how most of our lives were determined by forces too small to be seen by the naked eye.

Because he had ordered everyone out, the lab was empty. He relished the solitude and the order. Too much of his life these days was taken up with people and meetings and paperwork. He was a victim of his own success.

He so rarely got a chance to do hands-on work anymore. Usually, his assistants handled such work for him, but this specimen he needed to see for himself.

The sample case lay on the matte-black countertop, cardboard box still sealed on all sides with tape. It had been hand-delivered to the lab that morning. He slit the tape and pulled out a Styrofoam box. It had been well packed. Dr. Dubois lifted the Styrofoam lid and removed a simple glass jar surrounded on all sides by cooling gel packs. Per his instructions, it had not been frozen. Inside the jar, pinkish-beige tissue quivered like a lump of jelly.

He held the glass container to the light. Some decomposition had occurred, but the sample looked better preserved than he’d dared hope. It must have been taken shortly after death and quickly packed away. What he sought could survive a long time, even at room temperature. A full brain would have been better, but he had more than enough tissue for what he needed. He set the jar carefully on the countertop.

He drew a brand new scalpel from a drawer, unwrapped it, and placed it next to the jar. The sharp steel blade gleamed in a shaft of sunlight. Long ago, he’d had his own set of scalpels, regularly sterilized, but in today’s throwaway culture, it was easier to buy single-use ones. This refined piece of equipment might make only one cut before being discarded.

Next he pulled a box of glass slides and cover slips from a nearby drawer. They, too, would only see a single use. He located a pair of reusable tweezers and put them next to the scalpel. His tools were all in place.

Although it wasn’t strictly necessary, he put on a pair of latex gloves and a face mask that heated up with the first breath. It felt like dressing up for Halloween. He smiled—nasty tricks or clever treats, there were some of each to be found in this special sample.

The jar proved difficult to open, and he remembered again the small man’s deceptive strength. Eventually, the lid budged. A quick turn, and he had free access to the ruthlessly gathered sample.

He dipped a gloved hand into the glass container and pulled out a clot. The tissue felt cool and soft through his glove, like aspic straight from the refrigerator. On one edge sat a darker mass, perhaps a cyst.

He set the sample down on the counter and picked up the scalpel. With controlled, deft movements, he sliced the potential cyst into thin samples and placed the first one on a slide with tweezers. Tenderly, he placed the cover slip on top, as if tucking in a baby.

Trying to control his rising excitement, he took a deep breath, studying the new slide that he held flat between his gloved thumb and forefinger. It contained a sample that he’d never thought he would see.

He clipped the slide under the microscope’s lens and focused the eyepiece. As the slide came into sharp relief, he stopped breathing. There it was. Even at this magnification, he could see the sample teeming with parasites—parasites he had put there.

He stared down at the swirling mass.

The last troublesome link to the 500 series was severed. Subject 523 had come back to him. The doctor was safe.

He dropped the slide into the biohazard bin along with the scalpel. The tweezers he put into a bin destined for the autoclave. The tissue in the jar itself he carried to the incinerator in the far corner. It reminded him of the one in which Dr. Johansson had lost her life and reminded him that he had to replace her. No rest for the weary.

Minutes later, the lab was clean—tissue disposed of, box packed away for recycling, countertop sterilized. It was as if he’d never worked in here at all.

The last obstacle to tomorrow’s larger-scale testing had been removed. He opened the refrigerator to take out the samples stored there. When he opened the door, light reflected off a row of stoppered glass tubes. The contents didn’t need to be refrigerated, but this was the most convenient place to store them.

That was the genius of it—the parasite was so hardy that it was easy to store and transport. Simple, too, to administer. The test tubes in front of him contained enough material to infect a thousand soldiers. And, best of all, the parasite was common enough that twenty-five percent of the population of the United States already carried it; other countries had high incidences of it as well. An autopsy of anyone infected with his strain might find the parasite, but they would dismiss it. The parasite was so common as to be beyond suspicion.

He picked up a test tube and held the cool glass up to the light. Over many years, he had refined the sample stored there. He had tested it on rats, on primates, and on humans. There had been many failures that he tried not to think of, but successes, too.

That the parasite changed the behavior of its host had been documented before Dr. Dubois was born. The microscopic creature changed its host to suit its own needs—causing rats to run to cats to be devoured, or humans to behave with increased recklessness and promiscuity. Fine-tuning the parasite to suit the military’s needs had taken years. But he had succeeded.

It was hard to believe that it had started with a simple cat, that each one of these creatures had passed through a cat’s gut and out the other end. He had truly mined gold from shit.

He studied the gleaming tube, imagining the creatures teeming within. He had built them to make soldiers do his bidding. And they had.

Only a few more minutes of his lunchtime laboratory ban remained. He swung a metal briefcase onto the counter next to the refrigerator. Specially manufactured foam lined the inside. The foam contained divots the size and shape of the stoppered test tubes. They wouldn’t clink, they wouldn’t rattle, and they wouldn’t break, even if the case were dropped. One by one, he pressed the precious glass containers into their manufactured shell.

Tomorrow morning he would take a train to Manhattan. He’d hand-deliver the case to Agent Marks of the CIA, and the trials would start by the end of the week.

In a few days, a thousand men would be infected.

Chapter 24

November 29, 2:29 p.m.

Grand Central Terminal

Ozan circled the vast building like a hawk waiting for a mouse to appear in a new-mown field. First, he stationed himself in the great hall itself, watching people come and go until he was satisfied that Tesla was not among them. Then he did a quick walk through the glittering shops and yuppie marketplaces. He didn’t expect to find Tesla there—loitering would be noticed—and he didn’t. Ditto the food court and restaurants.

He’d easily evaded the net of policemen, surprised at the number of men that they had deployed. Why was 523’s murder so important to them? Or maybe they searched for the one who had murdered one of their own. Even for that, the numbers seemed excessive. 523 and his documents held expensive secrets.

He checked train platforms. Police were stationed there, so he didn’t expect Tesla to be hanging out on them, but maybe nearby. He flashed an old CIA-supplied badge to one of the police officers guarding Platform 14 and was waved in, probably because he looked nothing like Tesla. He went into the tunnels, walking through the platforms on the upper and lower levels.

It was a lot of work, but it paid off.

Circling Platform 36, Ozan saw a gray lump against the back side of a pillar, facing away from the platform. A faint glow emanated from it. He stopped, trying to figure out what it was. The uneven contours made it look like a long, low boulder, but that didn’t make sense.

He moved closer, finally able to discern a knob on one end that resembled a head, and suddenly it made sense—someone was hidden underneath a blanket. Clever and cheap camouflage. The person leaned against the far side of the pillar, so that he would not be visible from the platform itself. Only someone coming from the other side or people in a passing train would see him. He bet it was Tesla, sitting there like a kid reading stories with a flashlight under the covers.

Ozan watched him, savoring the moment. Wouldn’t Tesla be surprised when he yanked off the blanket and put one right between his eyes?

Chapter 25

November 29, 4:01 p.m.

Tunnels near Platform 36

Stalling, Joe fussed with his Wi-Fi booster under the blanket. He was comfortable breaking in to places electronically, but hated the idea of sneaking into an actual building. What if he got caught? Even if they didn’t arrest him, they’d most likely throw him into the street. But he didn’t see any other options. He’d just have to not get caught.

Edison sensed his disquiet and woke. He wagged his tail once (cyan) as if to check on him.

“I’m all good,” Joe lied.

The yellow
fur ball snuggled closer to him. Joe tucked the blanket more securely around them both. They needed to stay hidden.

A quick search told Joe that the Office of Chief Medical Examiner for New York City was located at the corner of First Avenue and Thirtieth Street in Kips Bay, a neighborhood about a mile from his current location. If he could go outside, he’d be there in ten minutes, tops. He studied the modern square building—the Milton Helpern Institute of Forensic Medicine. It was blocky, a glass box rising several stories into the sky. Even looking at it made him nervous—too much exposure to the sky. He clenched his jaw. He’d have to go inside it.

Getting there was the challenge. A cab was out of the question.

If he couldn’t go outside, he’d have to make do with the underground. He pulled up an old map that he’d compiled from various scanned-in maps. It showed subway tunnels, train tunnels, steam tunnels, and sewage tunnels. They snaked under the city like a web of nerves sending signals throughout a vast brain.

To start, he could walk along the subway tunnel to the Thirty-Third Street Station (two threes flashed in his head—red and red again). After that, he’d have to switch to a different tunnel.

Sewage tunnels ran practically everywhere, hundreds of miles’ worth. The map showed a sewage outfall at the end of Thirtieth Street that pumped treated sewage straight into the East River. That tunnel ran right under his destination and was probably big enough to walk through. Not his first choice, but it might work.

He studied the network of steam tunnels that crisscrossed under the city. He’d read that the steam tunnels stretched more than one hundred miles. Built more than a century ago, some of those steam pipes still carried heat and power to New York homes and businesses. They had been built with walkable tunnels, because the active pipes needed regular servicing.

Tunnels ran back and forth like a maze, and the first few trails he traced ended in dead-ends. He’d best start at the end and work backward. He scrolled to the street corner that housed the Milton Helpern building.

He zoomed in on that city block until the tunnels dissolved into pixels, then back out, finally finding what he sought. A narrow tunnel ran right under the medical examiner’s building, and a bracket indicated that the tunnel exited inside, probably for maintenance. A quick scroll back showed that it was linked to the Thirty-Third Street station via two tunnels.

It just might be possible to get to the morgue. Breaking in was another story.

Joe hated to go. The tunnels were full of men searching for him, at least one of whom wanted to kill him. He was safe here.

A train thundered next to him. The tiny clock on the lower corner of the laptop screen told him that they had eight minutes before the next train was due.

“Come on, boy,” he said. “We need to get a move on.”

He stood and shook feeling back into his feet. Edison stretched.

Joe closed the laptop and dropped it into his backpack, adding his makeshift Wi-Fi dish. He folded the blanket so that it would be easy to shake out and tucked it under his arm. Slowly, he backed away from Platform 36 and the cop who served so patiently there.

A few minutes later, Joe and Edison reached the locked door at the end of the maintenance tunnel that connected Grand Central Terminal, the train station, with Grand Central Station, the subway station. He already knew which key to use, as he’d hiked through there several times on his nightly wanderings. Thanks again, Great-Grandfather Gallo.

Once he reached the subway station, he followed the tunnel for lines four (green), five (brown), and six (orange) heading south. He got practiced at sweeping the blanket over them and going into a crouch to hide from trains because they ran through here at intervals of five minutes, more or less. He sometimes walked only a few feet before he had to go into hiding. This was why he routinely didn’t start exploring until the middle of the night. Today he didn’t have that luxury.

Every time that he reached a subway platform, he got on all fours and crawled underneath it so that no one in the station could see him. His knees were black and blue by the time he reached the Thirty-Third Street Station. If he ever got another chance to pack an emergency bag, kneepads and gloves were going in it. Edison had no such problems.

At the Thirty-Third Street Station, he switched to an old Amtrak tunnel heading east, sweeping his flashlight along the wall every few feet, looking for the door that would lead to a steam tunnel but finding only neat rows of wires fastened to the wall.

He was almost on top of it when he realized that he could have found it without the light. The temperature in the tunnels usually stayed in the midfifties, chilly but comfortable with his hoodie, but the air felt much warmer here. At the warmest spot, his light illuminated a simple metal door.

Would his bundle of keys include the right one? Great-Grandpa Gallo had demanded full access to all parts of the subterranean world, but Joe worried that the various underground authorities hadn’t always bothered to send updated keys every time they changed a lock in the last century. He fished through his keys, trying first one, then another, and another. The fourth key did the trick. Sometimes, bureaucracy worked.

He pushed the door open with the toe of his sneaker, and a blast of hot air flowed across his face. Inside, it felt like a sauna. Sweat coated his body, and Edison began to pant. Joe put the temperature at around ninety degrees. A big change from the air outside, but bearable.

He peeled off his hoodie and looked around for a light switch. As expected, he found one, and lights flickered on down the tunnel. He clicked off his flashlight, glad to spare the batteries.

On his left ran rusty steam pipes with massive wheel-operated valves. He supposed they still worked, even if they looked rusted shut. Rust flakes littered the floor like decayed snow.

On his right was a long, whitewashed wall. Power cables hung on the ceiling that powered, probably among other things, the fluorescent lights. The tunnel stretched ahead in a straight line.

He stuffed his hoodie and the blanket into the backpack and shouldered it back on so that his hands were free. He didn’t expect trouble, but he had to be wary. He walked forward, Edison at his heels.

Steam rushed through nearby pipes with a rattling sound, like rain on a tin roof, and an occasional burble. Heat radiated off the metal. If even a pinhole opened up in one of these pipes, it would cook him and Edison like prawns.

He broke into a quick jog. Sweat poured off him, but he didn’t slow down. It wasn’t far, less than a half-mile, and he wanted to get through it as fast as he could. It gave him the creeps knowing that he could be cooked alive at any second.