CHICAGO
The rain hadn’t let up. If anything, Platt thought it was coming down harder. The car Bix had hired to drive them wasn’t out front as instructed, only giving the CDC chief yet another reason to blow one of his last proverbial gaskets. They watched the health inspector doing a comical skip-dance to his vehicle, leaping puddles and using his briefcase for an umbrella. Yet neither Bix nor Platt smiled.
“Your friend played us for a couple of chumps,” Platt said.
Bix beat his umbrella against the brick wall until it popped open.
“Frickin’ wild-goose chase,” he agreed. “Let’s see if the son-of-a-bitch driver is around the corner.”
He lifted the umbrella, inviting Platt to share.
“Why would he send us all the way here just to take a look at some sanitary infractions?”
Bix shrugged. He didn’t have an answer, seemed a bit embarrassed that he didn’t have an answer.
Around the corner they found a chain-link fence and a security hut. No car, no driver. Beyond the fence was another part of the processing plant. Or at least that’s what the building looked like at first glance, with the same brick façade and an enclosed walkway that connected it to the main structure. What appeared different was the security. The guard in the small hut was armed. And he was dressed in a military uniform.
“What is this place?” Platt asked but he could already see that Bix was just as mystified.
Through the glass of the walkway they could see an armored truck pull out from behind the secured building. There was obviously a separate entrance for this part of the plant.
“Shall we see what’s inside?” Platt asked as they stood in the rain.
“Yeah, right.”
“They can call the plant supervisor to vouch for us.”
“Something tells me that guy wouldn’t carry much weight on this side of the plant.”
“We have credentials from USAMRIID and the CDC. I’m in uniform.”
“Can they court-martial us for something like this?”
“You’re a civilian. Civilians can’t be court-martialed.”
Bix considered this. “Okay, let’s see how far we get.”
Within ten minutes they were inside. It didn’t take much longer before both men realized this was what the anonymous caller had hoped they would see. The laboratories rivaled those that Platt worked in every day. He was impressed. And in an unsavory way they reminded him of USAMRIID—but the past, rather than the present.
Men and women in white lab coats worked behind digital microscopes and computer screens. The walls were lined with rows and rows of computer monitors. Platt and Bix were told that the labs were run by the Department of Agriculture, advancing hybrids and continuing research on genetically engineered foods. It made sense to Platt until they passed a room with a huge electron microscope and other highly advanced equipment that he recognized and had only seen in his own labs at USAMRIID.
The manager of the plant introduced himself as Philip Tegan. He said he was used to senior officials—their credentials had, indeed, impressed him—dropping in to take a look. In fact, he seemed oddly excited to meet Platt and said it was about time someone from USAMRIID visited.
When Platt nonchalantly asked, “Why is that?” Tegan, whose birdlike features—beady narrow eyes separated by a sharp hooked nose and finished with a wobbly chin— squawked out a laugh as if Platt were joking.
“Well, because of the amazing programs USAMRIID pioneered back in the 1970s. You might say we’re following in your footsteps.”
“Really?”
Platt hid his surprise and ignored Bix’s “What the fuck?” look of confusion. Instead, he focused on encouraging Tegan to share, but it seemed the man had wisely become silent.