LOUISE VOSS AND
MARK EDWARDS
All Fall Down

For Claire Finch and Ali Cutting

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue: Patient Zero: California

Chapter 1: Surrey, England

Chapter 2

Chapter 3: Oxfordshire

Chapter 4: San Diego

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Author’s Note

Read on for a thrilling extract of Forward Slash

About the Author

Also by Louise Voss and Mark Edwards

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue: Patient Zero
California

John Tucker sneezed violently, jerking the steering wheel to the left, the car swerving and almost clipping the median strip. A truck rumbled past in the outside lane, its horn blaring deep and low, and John raised his middle finger and shouted a curse that nobody could hear.

He was twenty-eight years old and had nothing. No woman, no job, no apartment and no money – apart from the five hundred bucks Cindy had given him.

He’d met her in Hollywood, only a few days ago, though it felt like weeks. He had just spent the last of his money on a night in that sleazy pit, the Capitol Hotel. On that hot summer’s evening he’d been contemplating a night on the streets unless something miraculous happened.

John had been sitting in a bar, the last of his cash gone on a beer that was warm from where he’d been nursing it so long, staring down at the tabletop, his long greasy hair blocking out the world. He became aware of a presence by the table and a female voice. ‘Mind if I join you?’

She was beyond beautiful. Long dark brown hair, a heart-shaped face, hypnotic eyes. She was wearing a leather biker jacket over a white T-shirt that hugged her breasts. He managed to croak, ‘Sure.’

She sat down opposite him. ‘Thanks.’ Her voice was soft and southern, from someplace like Alabama or Georgia. ‘I’m Cindy.’

‘Are you an angel?’ he asked.

And she’d laughed, the sweetest laugh he’d ever heard.

‘Well …’ was all she said.

That night, during which she bought him several beers, shrugging off his half-hearted protests, he told her his pathetic story. About coming to LA to be a rock star, about how the band never took off and his bandmates had either drifted into regular employment or embraced drugs and booze, leaving him to his own addiction.

Not alcohol. Not smack. No, he got dizzy from the spin of the roulette wheel, the whirl of the slots, the roll of the dice. The weekend after the band finally broke up, he’d taken off to Vegas and hadn’t surfaced until he’d lost everything, emerging in a daze into the desert heat without a cent left to his name.

It had been the same for years. Everything he earned, he threw away in Vegas, driving to Nevada with that sick feeling deep inside him, the itch he had to scratch. But Lady Luck never favoured him. She’d tease him, sure, then snatch it all away.

He told Cindy all this, his eyes stinging with the shame of it, and she reached across the table and stroked the back of his hand with long gold-painted fingernails. Her own eyes were wide and shining with compassion, but she kept smiling.

‘You can be saved, John Tucker,’ she said. ‘All you need to do is open your heart.’ She squeezed his hand and leaned forward, dipped her face coyly and looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Will you come with me, John? I feel like you shouldn’t be alone tonight.’

They had left the Capitol Hotel bar around midnight. In the parking lot, John had whistled when Cindy opened the door of a gleaming white Porsche Cayman. He moved to open the passenger door but Cindy shook her head. ‘Take your car and follow. Don’t worry, I’m gonna to take it nice and slow.’

The way she looked at him as she said this made him wobbly with lust.

He’d followed her for two whole hours along the highway until, finally, she’d pulled up to the gates of a large house. All the lights were off so he couldn’t see well with only starlight to go by, but it looked like some kind of ranch house. The kind of place he’d expect a woman who drove a Porsche to live.

She opened the gates and he followed her through. When the cars drew to a standstill all he could hear was the throbbing of crickets and his own heartbeat. Cindy opened the door of his car and leaned inside, putting her hands behind his head. He thought she was going to pull him into a kiss. Instead, she tied a blindfold around his eyes.

‘What’s this?’ he asked, excited.

‘Shush …’ She took him by the hand and led him across a crunchy path and into the house. All was silent. She steadied him as she led him up a staircase, then he heard a door open with the faintest creak, then shut behind them.

‘Can I take this off now?’ he asked.

She put her finger to his lips. He tried to put his arms around her, to grab her butt and press himself against her, but she slipped out of his embrace like a wisp of smoke.

‘Cindy?’

‘Sleep,’ she whispered, and before he could say a word she had gone, closing the door behind her.

Shocked, he pulled off the blindfold. He was in a small room with a single bed. A candle burned on a low table. He tried the door. It was locked. There was a narrow adjoining room that contained nothing but a toilet and a basin. No way out.

He knocked, shouted, tried knocking on the window too. What the fuck was this? Some kind of kinky game?

Or was some guy – Cindy’s boyfriend – about to arrive with a gun or a hunting knife?

He felt in his pocket for his cellphone, then remembered he’d left it in the car.

After a while he stopped yelling and sat down on the bed. He didn’t feel horny any more. Eventually, he went to sleep.

In the night, he thought he sensed someone standing over him, felt something on his face. But when he opened his eyes, there was no one there. Just the locked door.

When he woke up, there was a basket of food on the floor: fresh bread and fruit, a pitcher of OJ. He ate and drank greedily. Then he banged on the door again, not really expecting anyone to answer. But within seconds, Cindy stood before him, as beautiful as he remembered.

‘What in hell is going on here?’ he demanded, but she simply smiled that beatific smile of hers and said, ‘Relax, John. You’re here to rest. To get better.’

‘But I’m not sick,’ he protested. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me.’

She shook her head like that was the saddest, most misguided thing she’d ever heard.

Then she’d sat with him for an hour, talking to him, soothing him with words that he was barely listening to. He was too busy staring at her, aching to touch her creamy skin, to stroke that hair. Aching to fuck her. He felt like a teenage boy on a first date.

But she wouldn’t let him touch her. After that hour, she went away. Later, she came back with another tray of food, which she set on the floor before leaving without a word. He banged on the door some more but nobody came.

This pattern continued for three days. Evenings alone in the room, going mad with his thoughts, before crashing out on the bed. Fresh food and drink left by his door. And that sense, in the night, of someone standing over his bed.

On the morning of the third day, he awoke with a scratch in his throat and a different kind of ache that made his skin shiver and feel sore to the touch. His head hurt too, and he kept sneezing.

He tried knocking on the door but he felt too rough. He wanted to go back to bed.

Funny, he’d thought as he lay down, if my life wasn’t so shit maybe I’d be busting my balls trying to get out of here. But he actually liked it here – especially the hour when Cindy came and sat with him. It was a kind of instant Stockholm syndrome.

And then, that evening, she came and told him it was time to leave.

‘What?’ he asked, sniffing.

‘You’ll be better now,’ she said.

‘What the fuck are you talking about?’

Then she held out the money. Five hundred bucks. He looked at it like a dog eyeing a steak.

She put the blindfold back on him and led him down the stairs. He had a feeling there were other people around, could hear them breathing. But by the time he was seated in his car, and Cindy removed the blindfold, the door was shut and there was nobody in sight.

‘Go, John Tucker,’ she said, pressing the money into his hand.

‘Come with me?’ he asked, though he knew she would say no.

‘Om Shanti, John.’

The highway was dark, the moon full overhead. One day, he guessed, he’d look back at this strange episode and laugh. For now, though, he only felt confused and sick. He wanted to get back to LA, find a beer and a bed. Maybe rent himself one of those crack whores to unleash his frustration on. He turned up the radio when an old Nirvana tune came on. Then he saw the sign.

EEL CREEK RESERVATION AND CASINO. 1 mile.

Like an alcoholic watching whisky splash into a tumbler, the compulsion hit him in the gut.

Casino.

He’d been to casinos on Indian reservations before. They were a poor substitute for the Class A drug that was Vegas, but they were still places where men like him could change their lives with one stroke of luck, one clever play.

He became acutely aware of the five hundred dollars burning in his pocket.

No, he told himself. Keep driving. Get to LA, get yourself holed up, you’re going to need that money. It’s all you have.

But the itch had started. By the time he was only half a mile from the reservation, his whole body was crawling with it. Surely, whispered the devil on his shoulder, there’s no harm in dropping in, seeing what it’s like? He could set himself a limit of fifty dollars, leave the rest locked in the glovebox.

Here was the turning. The moment to decide. He sneezed yet again. Didn’t he deserve some pleasure, some fun, especially when he was feeling so lousy, after spending half a week imprisoned in a tiny room? Just a couple of spins of the roulette wheel and then he’d be out of there. There was no harm in it.

He signalled right.

He entered the casino with the whole five hundred dollars in his pocket. He wasn’t going to spend it all though, no way. Besides, he felt lucky tonight. He was tingling.

Bored staff looked him over coolly as he passed into the dark interior of the casino, the electronic clatter of the slot machines making the tingles turn to tremors.

He paused by a slot machine, where an obese woman sat in a motorised wheelchair, joylessly feeding coin after coin into its hungry mouth. Across the other side of the dim room lay the object of his desire. He strode over, trying to ignore the scratching in his throat, the heat around his temples. Since getting out of the car and into the air-conditioned building, his flu had felt considerably worse. But, fuck it. Nothing was going to stop him enjoying tonight.

The dealer at the roulette table was a tall, good-looking Indian guy of about thirty. He looked impassively at John as he took a seat. A waitress came over and took his order, JD on the rocks.

‘Evening, sir,’ said the dealer.

‘Evening.’

John exchanged one hundred dollars for chips. As he handed over the cash, he sneezed, spraying the dealer with spittle.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, dude.’

The dealer blinked but didn’t show any emotion. John sipped his drink, the burn of the whisky easing the soreness in his throat, thought about his strategy, and ended up doing what he always did.

Bet on black.

Two hours later, he emerged from the casino in a daze. He felt hot and dizzy. His nose was blocked and his throat burned like he’d swallowed a razor. His skin was damp and clammy and his head was pounding.

But he didn’t give a damn.

He unlocked his car and flopped on to the front seat, pulling the wad of dollars from his jeans pocket. He couldn’t believe it. He’d walked into the casino a broke bum and come out, if not a tycoon, then considerably richer.

Five thousand bucks. He’d got back ten times his stake. He’d never been so lucky in his whole miserable life. The ball kept falling on black, black, black again.

It was freaking unbelievable.

He let out a hoarse whoop that turned into a cough. With this money he could set himself up in LA, get a place, a job, actually do something with his life. Screw you, Cindy. John Tucker didn’t need you.

Tomorrow, his new life would begin. But right now, he needed somewhere to crash. The Capitol Hotel was a ninety-minute drive away. A good night’s rest there and he’d be raring to go in the morning.

He put the five thousand in the glovebox and locked it, pausing a moment to stroke the cash and murmur a final, ‘Unbelievable.’

Tucker never made it back to the Capitol Hotel. Nine days later he was found in a boarded-up deserted diner on the outskirts of LA. Too sick to face the gridlock of the city or to find a motel, he’d managed to break in through a window at the rear of the building, presumably to use the facilities – which had been well and truly utilised – Tucker had covered every inch of it with his bodily functions: toilet, basin, tiled floor, mirrored walls, before the final seizure that ended his life. A highway patrolman called Michael Vane who had spotted Tucker’s abandoned car found him dead on the floor, fifty-dollar bills glued with bubbles of black matter to the tiles around him, and the green skin of his cheeks stretched in a taut rictus of agony over his face. Flies buzzed around the cadaver; one landed on Vane’s face, on his lip, and he batted it away with disgust.

As he pulled out his radio to call for assistance, Vane paused. There were more fifty-dollar bills scattered beside the body, some of them splattered with drops of mucus but most of them clean. He quickly counted the notes: just under five thousand dollars.

Vane, who had debts close to that amount and a pregnant wife, thought about it for a minute. Nobody knew he was here. Nobody need ever know he’d found this poor bastard. Heart pounding, he stuffed the dollar bills into his pockets, including some of the stained ones. He slipped out of the building, checking to make sure there was nobody around to see him sneak back to his patrol car, trying his hardest to shake off the sight of the corpse and ignore the rank smell that wafted from the diner. Before heading back to the precinct he would first go home, hide the money in his closet.

And so he left, headed onto the freeway, nauseous and blissfully ignorant of the death sentence he had imposed upon not only himself and his pregnant wife but many of his Highway Patrol colleagues; a death sentence that they in turn would spread into the air, like the noise from the siren on their patrol cars, into the great, shining city of angels.

1
Surrey, England

A poster on the door read: TODAY 7 P.M. – THE FACULTY OF SCIENCE PRESENTS A FREE LECTURE – ‘A NEW BREED OF AIRBORNE VIRUSES: THE STUFF OF SCI-FI OR A REAL AND PRESENT DANGER TO US ALL?’ GUEST SPEAKER: DR KATE MADDOX FROM OXFORD UNIVERSITY.

MI6 officer Jason Harley had intended to wait outside for her, but heavy rain had begun to splatter the pavement around him, and was already starting to soak into the shoulders of his suede jacket. He’d had to park his elderly Jaguar too far away to be able to sit inside and listen to cricket on the radio; not without the risk of missing her, at least, so he pulled his baseball cap – part rain protection, but mostly male-pattern baldness disguise – lower over his forehead and went in.

It was warm and dark in the lecture theatre with forty or so students in attendance, many of them pecking away on mobile phones or laptops. As Harley climbed the stairs to slide into the back row of raked seating, he noticed that most of the screens displayed social networking sites and games. He couldn’t prevent a quiet but judgmental sort of tut slipping out at their seemingly total lack of interest. Why bother to show up if you were going to sit and play Angry Birds instead of listening?

‘Of course, what is of primary concern to us virologists is the way in which West Nile disease is transmitted. It’s not airborne, as I’m sure you know, and therefore not strictly relevant to my lecture today, but I’ll talk about it for a few minutes, because it’s really fascinating …’

The speaker was a slim woman with long, shiny brown hair and a mid-Atlantic accent. She stood on the stage with her back to the audience, and Harley admired her high heels and tight pencil skirt as she pointed to a PowerPoint slide of the map of the world, dotted in various locations with outsize illustrations of mosquitoes, their long thin legs dangling like a toddler’s faint scribbles. Kate Maddox, he thought, you are damn lucky to be alive.

‘Mosquitoes become infected after feeding on virus-carrying birds, such as crows, and the mosquitoes can then infect humans …’

He wondered if she remembered him. He was pretty sure that his appearance would not be a welcome one, especially when he explained why he’d been sent to talk to her.

‘… and this map shows the increase of West Nile encephalitis in the Western world in the last decade …’

Kate turned back round to face her audience, and it struck Harley how beautiful she was. She was unrecognisable as the wild-eyed woman she’d been two years previously, when he’d first seen her during the raid on a lab, the secret HQ of a criminal virologist named Gaunt. Kate and her boyfriend Paul had been held prisoner there, a fate doubly painful to her, in the knowledge that her little boy had just been sent out into the world with a deadly virus. It had been a frantic race against time to get them out, find the antivirus – and then find her son, Jack.

‘One biotech company has found that blocking angiotensin II can treat the “cytokine storm” of West Nile virus encephalitis – and, even more exciting, of other viruses too. The potential of this is enormous, and I feel we scientists are getting close to developing a vaccine that will work on a variety of strains of similar mosquito-borne viruses.’

A fleeting look of anxiety passed across Dr Maddox’s features as she talked, clearly noticing the students shifting in their seats, playing games on their phones, or whispering, but it was so brief that Harley was probably the only one to notice it.

She’s losing them, he thought, half sympathetically, half curious to see how she would react. He watched her closely as she pushed back her shoulders and inhaled deeply. A subtle movement, but one that denoted a gathering of control. Harley recalled the last time they’d met: at the funeral of the poor bastard killed in the same lab raid. Stephen Wilson, Paul’s twin brother. A weird one, as they all thought Stephen had died years earlier anyway, in a fire. Must have been like burying a ghost. Harley remembered a blistering hot day, with the floral tributes already withering on the grave. Not much body left to bury – the virus had turned it to purée within minutes of being unleashed. He shivered.

‘But it’s the lab-manufactured ones we need to be more concerned about. “Designer” viruses, created to cause havoc, that could quite conceivably wipe out whole continents if they got into the wrong hands – or rather, remained in the wrong hands.’

The students stopped fidgeting and visibly sat up straighter, as did Harley, even though he was well aware of the facts already. A heavily tattooed boy near the front whistled softly.

‘Seriously? So that shit really does go on?’

Dr Maddox smiled at him. ‘I shouldn’t say that kind of thing – walls have ears, ha ha! But take haemorrhagic viruses, for example, my primary area of expertise. My partner, Dr Isaac Larter – some of you may have heard of him, he’s extremely well-known in his field – and I have been studying one particularly virulent strain for years, the Watoto virus, which is similar to Ebola but airborne, making it easier to transmit. Its origins are natural – the word Watoto means “child” in Swahili, as its first victims tend to be children – and there have been several breakouts in West Africa. Fortunately these have been restricted to remote and contained areas, but we always have to be on the lookout for shifts in its genetic make-up. And you may have heard of the recent case in which two sets of researchers found a way to make bird flu infectious through airborne transmission – which could ultimately wipe out half the human race. Because of the fear of bioterrorists stealing the virus, or the new strain escaping from a lab, the researchers agreed to stop research …’

Kate Maddox looked out at the now rapt, if slightly blurry faces in front of her. She intentionally never wore her glasses to give lectures, as a means of not allowing herself to get intimidated by her audience – public speaking had never been her strong suit, although she knew it came with the territory. She hadn’t needed her specs, though, to discern that they’d been rapidly losing interest up until this point.

Phew, she thought. Got ’em back again. A mention of the threat of global annihilation usually did the trick. This lecture was proving hard work, though. She wished she could be back in the lab in Oxford, bantering with Isaac – her ‘work husband’ as Paul referred to him, without rancour, for Isaac was a good friend to Paul as well as to Kate. We must have him and Shelley round soon, Kate thought, as she talked through the grisly symptoms of Influenza A virus, subtype H1N1. It’s our turn to cook them dinner. Isaac was in the US at the moment, at the big immunology conference, rubbing shoulders with many of the top researchers in the field. Kate was supposed to be there too – had even booked her ticket – but last week Jack, ironically, had come down with chickenpox. He was fine now, just a bit spotty. He’d been lucky and hadn’t suffered too much, but Kate hadn’t wanted to leave him.

She spoke for another half an hour, until her voice became croaky and her legs ached with the tension. Isaac can bloody well do the next one, she thought, and next time I’ll be the one who gets to swan off to a conference in California.

The university was a four-hour journey from her home in Oxfordshire, and she was glad she’d had the foresight to ask them to book her into the local Travelodge. She was looking forward to a large drink and to kicking off the high heels that were making her feet cramp up.

‘Well,’ she said briskly, ‘we’re out of time, so I will leave you all to start building your bunkers and never venturing outside again without face masks and biohazard suits on.’

Polite laughter ensued, and the same short, hirsute professor who’d introduced her shambled back on to the stage to thank her and lead a half-hearted round of applause.

As the students filed out, Kate started putting away her laptop. The professor sidled up to her, scratching his beard. He was a full head shorter than her, and seemed to address his comments to her briefcase. Kate thought he looked as though he lived in Middle Earth.

‘Wondered if you would like to, er, come for a coffee, Dr Maddox? I would love to discuss your research into the Watoto virus in more detail. It’s absolutely fascinating. I could give you a lift?’

Kate had a brief image of them getting on the back of a donkey tethered to the railings outside, the professor with all his possessions tied in a handkerchief to a knotted ash stave that he carried over his shoulder.

‘Thank you so much for having me, but I’m actually really tired – and anyway my car is – oh!’

Her hand flew to her mouth as she suddenly recognised the remaining person in the lecture theatre, a stocky man in a baseball cap and tatty suede jacket. For a moment she thought her legs were going to give way, and a multitude of emotions and memories flooded through her: this man had been there as she’d looked through the porthole door of the lab and seen the bodies of Stephen and Dr Gaunt locked in there, writhing and dissolving into a pool of black blood on the floor before her eyes, instant victims of Pandora, one of the most deadly viruses on the planet. Then the despair of knowing that the one vial of antivirus that could save her son was also in the same room …

What on earth was he doing here now?

2

‘You remember me, don’t you, Kate?’ asked Harley, holding out his hand. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shock you. But I wondered if we could have a word, if you’re not busy.’

Although outwardly she retained her composure, Kate had turned pale. She shook his hand, and he felt the smooth contact of her skin. ‘Yes, of course I remember you. I’m terrible with names, though …?’

‘Jason Harley,’ he said, holding her hand a second too long. The professor looked distinctly annoyed.

‘Is everything all right, Dr Maddox?’

‘Thank you, Professor, it’s fine. This gentleman is an, um, old colleague of mine. And thank you again for hosting the lecture. I do hope your students enjoyed it.’ She turned back to Harley, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Let’s go for a drink, then.’

They drove in convoy out of the campus, Harley following Kate in her shabby red Golf. He could see her eyes darting anxious glimpses at him in the rear-view mirror when they stopped at traffic lights, and felt sorry for her. She pulled into the car park of the nearest pub, and he parked next to her.

‘I can’t stay long,’ she said as she got out and locked the door. It was still raining, more persistently now.

‘I won’t keep you.’

Once they were sitting across from one another on slippery leather sofas in a deserted corner, a glass of Scotch in front of each of them, Harley opened his mouth to explain.

Kate interrupted him before he got the words out. ‘Are you here to give me a warning because I mentioned the threat of bioterrorism? I mean, I didn’t think that would contravene the Official Secrets Act, I’m really sorry, but everyone knows that it’s a danger, look at the anthrax attacks, it’s common knowledge—’

He held up a hand. ‘That’s not why I’m here. Although it’s a good thing you didn’t mention Gaunt, or the Pandora virus – as you know, we prefer that those particular topics don’t become common knowledge …’ He didn’t want to let on to her that his colleagues had kept her and Paul under surveillance for the past two years, and they would certainly have known about it had either of them ever let anything slip.

‘Oh. Good. I don’t ever. Trust me. So why are you here?’

‘I’ll tell you, if you’ll let me.’ He smiled as he said it, trying to put her at ease. A strand of slightly damp hair twisted down below her collarbone, and he felt an urge to reach out and tweak it, before upbraiding himself for behaving like a lovelorn schoolboy. It was clearly too long since he’d had a girlfriend.

‘We need your help.’

‘Me?’ She looked away, but her instant reluctance was imprinted all over her features. You’d make a lousy spy, Dr Maddox, thought Harley, amused.

‘A situation has arisen in the US. California, to be precise. A new strain of virus that we haven’t seen before. It’s known as Indian flu, because it has broken out in a Native American reservation.’

Kate nodded and took a big swig of whisky, her interest immediately piqued.

‘It’s nasty. Really nasty. The first victim was thirty years old, fit, no underlying health issues. He got up one morning, complained to his wife that he had a sore throat and a runny nose. Went to his job on the reservation and apparently spent the whole shift sneezing over his co-workers, so they sent him home. Three days later, he was dead.’

‘Go on.’

‘A few days after that, his wife was dead too, along with three other people who worked with him. They’ve contained it, though. The whole reservation has been quarantined, no one in or out. There are no reported cases outside of it, so it seems it’s under control.’

Harley felt uncomfortable, misleading Kate in this way, but he had his orders: to recruit her to the team using any means he could, whether ethical or not. If he told her that the first victim worked in a casino, that several men who had been at that casino had died or were in intensive care and that the virus had spread beyond the reservation, she would be immediately aware of the risk faced by any visitor to California.

‘What kind of virus is it?’

‘I’m not a scientist, Kate. But from what I understand it’s a new strain of Watoto.’

Kate’s glass almost slipped from her grasp. ‘Watoto? In America? Why haven’t I heard about this?’

‘Because the US authorities are keeping it quiet at the moment. They don’t want to panic anyone. Anyway,’ he lied, ‘like I said, it’s not too serious, because it’s contained. Thank God it didn’t break out in Manhattan … My brief is to help the World Health Organization put together a team to create a vaccine in case of future outbreaks.’

‘Easier said than done. I’ve been trying to find a vaccine for Watoto for fifteen years.’

‘But with very limited resources, am I right? Now Watoto is seen as a … potential threat to the West, things are different. We’re assembling this team, to be based out in California at a state-of-the-art lab, the best equipment, money no object. All the top brass in your field. Well – not quite all of them. They want you to join them too.’

‘What?’

Harley repeated it in a level voice. ‘They – we – want you to fly out there and join the team. As soon as possible. They need you. You’re one of the world’s leading experts on Watoto. You had it. You survived. You’ve spent years researching it. The WHO contacted MI6 and asked us to recruit you.’ Another lie. But he knew she would never agree if she knew the whole truth.

Kate felt numb. Twice in her life she had almost been killed by a virus – Watoto itself and, at the Cold Research Unit, a mutated version of it that Gaunt had created. Two years ago she had discovered the truth about that, almost died at the hands of a psychopath and, worse, almost lost Jack.

She was still recovering from the trauma, seeing a therapist, the weekly reassurance of steepled fingers across a coffee table and the soft pull of tissues from the box next to her when her emotions spilled out; trying to live a ‘normal’ village life, growing odd-shaped vegetables, three-legged races at Jack’s school sports day, hay fever, nights out in the local pub with Isaac and Shelley and the local farmers. And now she was being asked to disrupt her life again and fly across the world.

She shook her head. ‘I can’t. What about Jack? He’s finally settled in his new school in the village. He’s made friends. So have we. And what about Paul? I can’t leave them both here, there’s no way—’

‘It sounds to me like you’re making excuses. If that’s the real reason you don’t want to do this then they can both come with you.’

Kate stared at him incredulously. ‘An epidemic of a highly infectious deadly disease has broken out. Even if it’s contained within this reservation, I wouldn’t want Jack anywhere near there.’

‘Like I said, it’s contained. But if you’re worried, Jack could stay in the UK, with your sister, perhaps?’

She shook her head. ‘Out of the question. Miranda’s husband’s recently left her, and Jack managed to give both her kids his chickenpox. She can’t cope as it is.’

‘What about taking him to Boston? That’s where his dad lives, isn’t it? It’s completely safe on the East Coast.’

‘No, he’s moved, he got a new job at the University of Dallas.’

‘Dallas is fine. Besides it’s not going to be for ever, Kate, probably a few weeks at most. I’ll be coming too – I can’t give you all the details until you agree, but a number of agencies are working alongside the WHO to respond to outbreaks like this.’

Kate was puzzled. She knew that serious epidemics and pandemics came under the auspices of GOARN, the Global Outbreak Alert and Response Network, which was part of the World Health Organization. This unit was made up of various UN branches, the Red Cross and other non-government bodies. Why were MI6 involved?

‘We need you, Kate.’

She shook her head. ‘We’ve only just got back into a normal routine. No, I’m sorry, it’s absolutely impossible. I’d love to go, and be part of the team that could finally crack Watoto – but I can’t. Please don’t ask me again. I’ll do what I can to help – I can put my research on hold here and work with the team via Skype, or whatever – but I’m not going out there.’

Kate rubbed her finger and thumb into her eyes, squeezing so hard that she saw stars. Once the black spots had cleared, she saw Harley gazing at her, not in an antagonistic way, but thoughtfully, patiently, as if he was waiting for her to say, ‘Oops, did I say no? I meant yes, of course. Let’s go.’

That chilled her, somehow more than if he’d insisted. She had a horrible feeling that saying no wasn’t really an option.

3
Oxfordshire

This is normality, thought Kate the next day as she stood in the rain at the school gates. Her son was often the first one out, tumbling through the doors with his hair sticking up in a tuft at the front, knees grimy and shirt buttoned up the wrong way.

Since Harley’s visit the night before, she hadn’t been able to think about anything except his offer. Her gut instinct had been to say no. After everything she’d been through, she craved a settled life for her family. She didn’t want to drag Jack halfway across the world, or leave him behind and make him feel as if she was abandoning him. But this was Watoto, which she saw as a personal enemy, and if she said yes, she would suddenly have unlimited research resources, and the chance of making the final breakthrough that she and Isaac had been working towards, on and off, for so many years. Then she tried to imagine how she would feel if the team of scientists managed to come up with an effective vaccine for the virus without her involvement – but equally quickly dismissed the thought as selfish.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a gentle poke in her side from the point of an umbrella. ‘Hello, you,’ said a voice.

‘Shelley, hi!’ Kate hugged her friend. ‘How are you? How’s Isaac getting on at the conference?’

‘Good, I think. We Skyped last night. He claims that he misses me madly, but you know Isaac, he’s such a boffin. He can’t get enough of research papers and keynote speeches and whatever else they do at these things. But he was so sweet, you know: before he left, he wrote “I love you” in jellybeans on my pillow. Good thing that Callum didn’t spot it, otherwise all I’d have had left would have been an “o” or a “v” – if that!’

‘Ah, that’s really romantic. He should give Paul a few lessons. He’s so unromantic it’s not even funny.’

Shelley’s blonde hair was all over her face, a shifting mass of curls. She pushed them back from cheeks reddened by the wind. ‘Paul adores you.’

‘I know,’ said Kate. ‘At least I think I do. He keeps proposing to me, so he must do – I wish he’d be a bit more demonstrative sometimes, that’s all.’

Shelley put her head to one side. ‘I’d say a proposal was a pretty demonstrative gesture, wouldn’t you?’

Kate laughed, realising how contrary she sounded. ‘It’s hard to explain. Maybe I’m being paranoid, but it’s like he proposes because he thinks he should, rather than because he desperately wants to marry me …’

‘You’re being paranoid, you daft cow,’ Shelley said, smiling at her.

Kate thought she was probably right. She was looking forward to seeing Paul again, after the night away, but this was tempered by the prospect of his reaction when she told him about Harley’s visit. What if Paul wanted them all to go? He’d probably give her a lecture about her duty to protect the public. And, thought Kate, he’d be right to. I do have a duty.

She must have looked worried again, because Shelley put a hand on her arm. ‘Everything OK, Kate?’

‘Oh, I’m fine … It’s nothing much. Just a boring work thing. Look, here comes trouble.’ She raised her voice so that Jack could hear, as he came pelting through the puddles to fling himself into her arms. He still had a couple of chickenpox scabs but had quickly bounced back to his old self.

‘Mummy!’ he cried ecstatically, as though she’d been away for a month instead of one night. ‘I missed you so much!’

She swung him around, laughing as she kissed his pink cheeks and felt the joy of his sturdy little eight-year-old body in her arms. Having a duty to protect the public was one thing – but what about her duty to protect her son? She’d already failed at that once, and vowed she’d never let him down again.

‘Can Callum come round to play battles?’ he asked, pretending to punch Callum in the stomach. Callum stood next to his own mother, holding her hand. He was shy, small and blond like Shelley, and so different from the stocky Jack. He giggled and feigned doubling up at Jack’s swipe, then whispered in Shelley’s ear.

‘Callum wants Jack to come over to us instead,’ Shelley said, straightening up. ‘Is that OK with you, Kate? He can stay for tea.’

Jack and Callum both cheered.

Kate hesitated. She’d missed Jack and would have preferred him to be at home with her – but she also really needed to talk to Paul when he got home from work, and it would be difficult with two noisy boys charging around the place with wooden swords and shields. ‘I’ll pick him up about seven, then,’ she said, hugging Jack. ‘Be good, sweetheart.’

Kate walked back down the lane from the school, keeping an eye out for the water-filled potholes, her head down to shield her face from the brisk unseasonal wind. She unlatched and swung open the five-barred gate of their rented cottage. Paul’s car wasn’t there, and she cursed softly under her breath. He had been out all day at a client’s office in Newbury, trying to help them identify the source of a computer virus that had wiped out half their data, and his phone was switched off. Come home, Paul, I need to talk to you, she implored the empty space on the gravel. Why did he switch off his phone when she had asked him so many times not to?

Leaving the gate open for him, she put down Jack’s book bag and searched in her pockets for the house keys. She gazed up at the house as she rummaged. It was a beautiful, half-timbered, thatched country cottage. ‘Looks like it should be on a jigsaw,’ Paul had said when they first saw it. If it was a jigsaw though, she thought, it would have a few pieces missing – one of the thatch’s eaves had a chewed sort of appearance, and one of the shutters at the front window was hanging off. Still, they loved it. It felt like home.

Kate let herself in to the living room. The huge stone fireplace that dominated the room looked cold and uninviting with the dead ashes of yesterday’s fire still in the grate. Ridiculous weather, she thought, lighting fires, in June? Imagining with longing the sensation of hot sun on her skin, she went into the kitchen and flicked the kettle on, but even as she was reaching for the teabags, changed her mind and uncorked a half-drunk bottle of Merlot instead. Pouring herself a large glass, she went back into the living room and was sinking into a faded pink armchair when she heard Paul’s car rolling onto the driveway.

A moment later he came in, ducking to avoid the low wooden doorframe. His face lit up when he saw her.

‘Hi, angel,’ he said, coming over to kiss her. He was stubbly, with the dark circles under his eyes that he always got after sitting in front of a computer screen all day. ‘How did the lecture go?’

‘Not bad,’ she said. ‘Bit of a tough gig. But there’s something—’

‘Where’s Jack?’ he interrupted, calling back over his shoulder as he went to pour himself a glass of wine. He took a deep gulp, then came up behind Kate and slid his arms round her neck, nuzzling her hair, the glass held precariously, its ruby contents tipping dangerously towards Kate’s lap.

‘Gone to play with Callum. Shelley’s going to give them tea. Which is good, because I need—’

‘Me. That’s what you need. Because I need you, and—’

‘Paul! Listen, please. Something’s happened. Sit down.’

‘What?’ He sat down on the sofa next to her, scanning her face with alarm.

‘That agent guy turned up at my lecture.’

Paul looked puzzled. ‘The lettings agent? Short bloke with the hairdresser’s car?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. Not him. Harley, the MI6 guy. The one who was there when …’ She couldn’t say it. When Jack nearly died. When I nearly died. ‘… you know …’

‘Him? Thought we’d seen the last of him. What did he want?’

‘Paul, he wants me to go to California. Now. There’s a new virus, and they think it’s a mutated strain of Watoto. People are already dying. But it’s all been contained so far, on an Indian reservation, and they’re keeping it quiet because they don’t want to panic everybody. He said they need me to join a team working on it out there, that the lead scientist has asked for me.’

Paul was silent for a moment. Kate looked at his downcast eyes as he stared into the depths of his wineglass. She studied the contours of his face, the sharp planes of his cheek and jaw, so familiar to her years before they had even met. His twin, Stephen, had been the love of her life. For the hundredth time, she looked at Paul and couldn’t prevent herself wondering: is it him I love, or still Stephen? She had long ago concluded that it was a question that she neither wanted nor needed to know the answer to. Not yet, anyway, not while things were going smoothly in their lives.

And things had indeed been going smoothly – until Harley showed up.

‘If MI6 are involved, they must have formed an inter-agency operation. It must be serious. Have they asked Isaac too?’

‘No. At least I don’t think so. Perhaps they don’t realise how knowledgeable Isaac is on Watoto. It makes sense for us both to go, as research partners.’

‘But you’re the primary expert. How long would it be for?’

Kate shrugged. ‘As long as it takes to find a vaccine, I guess. Or until the powers that be decide it’s not a priority any more and the funding runs out. Though Harley said they are throwing unlimited resources at it. Isaac and I are so nearly there – if we were working with other top virologists and had a state-of-the-art lab, maybe, together, we could finally crack it. You know what, I think that’ll be my condition: that Harley lets Isaac come too. I might consider it then.’

‘Would they let me come with you, do you think? You could be gone for months.’

‘Yes, Harley said we could all go … if you wanted to come, that is. I’d hate to be out there without you.’

‘And what about Jack?’

Kate shuddered. ‘I don’t know. Jack’s been begging to go and stay with Vernon this summer – we could maybe extend his visit? He’d be OK with his dad.’

Paul drained his glass, put it on the coffee table in

front of him, and sunk his head into his hands. ‘This is a nightmare.’

Kate moved closer to Paul on the sofa, hugging his side and burying her face in his chest. He smelled of that morning’s aftershave, and it reassured her. ‘I swore to Harley that there’s no way I would go, but part of me is saying I can’t turn my back on this, not when my being on the team would give them a better shot at preventing a pandemic taking hold. I don’t know what to do. But whatever happens, I promise I won’t go without you.’

‘Why don’t you talk to Isaac, get his advice? Maybe they’ve already asked him, and he said no.’

‘He’s in San Diego at that conference, remember? He won’t be back till Tuesday. But I’m sure he’d have rung me if they’d asked him to go.’

Paul sat up, gently pushing her away so they could face one another, eye to eye. ‘Let’s be logical about it. Yes, you could make a difference. Yes, it’s your field. But listen, they could’ve asked Isaac, couldn’t they, and it sounds like they haven’t. You’re not the only virologist working in that field. There are others, maybe not as good as you – but others who haven’t been through what you’ve already been through, and who don’t have families to think about. It’s not fair that they’re putting it all on your shoulders. They’ve already got a team on it out there.’

They talked on, listing pros and cons, sometimes arguing, sometimes rationalising, swinging one way and then the other in the debate. Along the way, Paul lit the fire and Kate made toast and uncorked another bottle of Merlot. Finally Paul opened his laptop and googled ‘new virus in California’, ‘death on Indian reservation’, ‘new strain

of Watoto’, and every other permutation he could think of, but nothing came up. Kate gazed into the fire, trying to allow herself to by hypnotised by the flames – anything

for a respite from the dilemma whose ramifications were multiplying like a virus in her brain.

‘I’d better get Jack,’ she said, eventually, checking the time on her mobile. ‘I told Shelley I’d pick him up at seven.’

‘Want me to go?’ asked Paul.

‘No, it’s OK, thanks. I could do with some air.’ The heat from the fire had burned a flush in her cheeks, and Kate suddenly yearned for the cold wind to cool them down. Slipping on her coat and wellies, she set off along the lane into the village.

A weak evening sun briefly struggled through the clouds, gently highlighting hawthorn hedges and the swaying branches of trees overhead until the clouds once more overtook it. The thought of having to leave Jack with his dad for however long it took to develop the vaccine, knowing that could mean anything from six months to a year, was intolerable.

No. I can’t do it, she thought. I won’t.

But then she wavered, thinking of the thousands of lives that could be saved. Weighing up the opportunity to work in a state-of-the-art lab with resources second to none, money no object …

The image of Jack’s face when she’d picked him up in the playground flashed into her mind. He was so happy here. A normal little boy again. Nothing, not fame nor fortune nor acclaim, could persuade her to jeopardise that for a second time.

Not even thousands of innocent lives?

Still deep in thought, she rounded the corner of the lane leading to Isaac and Shelley’s small but beautiful Georgian manor house, bought as a wreck five years ago and lovingly restored. When she saw what was outside, she stopped in her tracks.

A police car was parked in the driveway. Suddenly, cutting through the evening silence of an English village came the ear-splitting sound of a scream, loud, high and panicked. A scream of primal pain – and it was coming from the house of her best friend.

Kate started to run.

4
San Diego

Angelica stood in the shadows of an alleyway that ran alongside the Metropolitan Hotel, one of San Diego’s finest, the kind of place where senators and rock stars stayed when they were in town. She reached down and patted a knee-high leather boot, just to double-check, touched her auburn wig to make sure it was still neatly in place, and carefully adjusted her designer backpack. She closed her eyes, briefly clasped the obsidian ankh that hung round her neck, and then she was ready.

She waited until the doorman was occupied with another guest, hailing them a taxi, then drifted in through the revolving doors.

It was cool inside the lobby, but busy, women in suits wheeling miniature cases behind them, businessmen barking into BlackBerrys. She stayed away from the front desk, keeping her eyes downcast whenever she passed someone. Angelica had practised this many times: the art of switching that inner light on and off. Revealing her beauty when she needed to dazzle a room or put somebody under a spell, then dimming it, rendering herself almost invisible. It was all about projection, confidence, attitude. Mousy little people naturally scurried through the world without being noticed. She was able to tap into her inner mouse, or reveal the lioness, at will. She avoided eye contact, wore no perfume, thought no sexual thoughts lest she give off pheromones that attracted attention. She was good at this. That was why she was doing this important job herself. Cindy had already played her part well. But this job was going to require far more skill.

Propped on an easel, a sign confirmed what she been looking for:

INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE OF IMMUNOLOGY & VIROLOGY, Main Ballroom

A shot of adrenaline raced through her system, but she breathed deeply, staying calm. So many of them here: virologists, academics, doctors, biochemists, representatives of big pharma companies. Most of the top experts in immunology under one roof, from all over the world. She had studied the delegate list in detail and had been thrilled, though not surprised, as it was predestined, to see that her two main targets were here.

They would be in there now, enjoying post-conference drinks, chatting with their fellow academics, perhaps discussing a paper they had read, or where to go for dinner. None of them, yet, would have any inkling of what was to come. As she had foreseen, the authorities were keeping the outbreak under wraps. Part of her would love to stride into the room, get their attention by switching on her inner light and tell them what was on its way – not only today but in the future. She would love to witness the panic, the horror. Because, more than anyone else, the people in that room would understand the threat faced by the world.

And they wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it.

But she couldn’t draw attention to herself, couldn’t risk leaving any witnesses who had seen her. She needed to be patient. She took a seat in the lobby, in the shadows near the elevators, and waited.

She only had to wait ten minutes before he appeared: Dr Isaac Larter. He was tall and gangly, balding, the remains of his hair sticking up at crazy angles, with large expressive hands and a grin on his face. He was talking to another man, Japanese perhaps, and they were both laughing as they exited the ballroom. No sign of Dr Maddox. She must be inside. The woman would love to lay eyes on her, see her in the flesh while her flesh was still intact. But she was pleased Larter had come out. It suited her plan perfectly.

For a moment she thought the two men might be heading out together, which would have made things tiresomely complicated, but then Dr Larter lifted a palm to say farewell to the Asian man.

Angelica rose from her seat and followed him towards the elevators, padding silently across the lobby. The elevator doors pinged open as she got there and she stepped in after him. It was just the two of them. More good luck. Not that she believed in luck – everything was going exactly as it was destined.

Larter pulled a BlackBerry from the pocket of his linen jacket and started tapping away on it with his thumb, smiling to himself. Now was the moment for her to step out of her self-imposed shadow and flick the switch that would illuminate this small space. She widened her eyes, licked her lips and pushed out her chest.

‘Dr Larter? It is Dr Larter, isn’t it?’

He looked up from his phone, curious. He swayed a little – he had clearly had a few glasses of something, which was more good news for her. ‘Yes … that’s me. I don’t believe …?’

She stuck out her hand, ensuring she made eye contact as he took her hand in his and shook it. She let the handshake linger for a moment longer than was natural.

‘Sonia Tyler,’ she lied. ‘I’m a huge fan … I mean admirer of your work.’

‘Really?’ Her words had the desired effect. Surprised, but flattered. And she was pleased to see him quickly look her up and down, taking in her beauty. He might be happily married, the thought of an affair or even a dalliance while away from his wife far from his mind, but he was not immune to her charms.

‘Yes. I’m sorry, I hope I’m not embarrassing you.’

He smiled, showing her a mouthful of crooked teeth. Disgusting. ‘Not at all.’

She smiled back, coyly. ‘I’m studying immunology at the University of California and writing my thesis on the attempt to find a vaccine for the Watoto virus. Your work is so important and groundbreaking. Your new research paper has really inspired me. I was very excited when I saw your name on the delegate list, but I had no idea I would actually get to speak with you.’

‘Well …’

She could see how happy the attention and praise made him, but he was lost for words. ‘That’s marvellous.’ He eyed her backpack, no doubt thinking it was full of textbooks. If only he knew the truth.

‘I’m so happy that you came all the way to America for this conference.’ She meant it. This was destiny in action again.

The elevator glided to a halt and the doors opened. ‘Er … this is my floor,’ he said, clearly disappointed that the conversation was about to end.

‘Mine too!’ she exclaimed as if this was the most exciting coincidence of her life.

They walked down the corridor together, Dr Larter awkward, her gushing about how she had been reading about a breakthrough in the UK, where they had discovered that antibodies could pass into cells and fight viruses from within. ‘It’s so exciting. To think we might only be a few years away from cracking the code of how to defeat viruses.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘It might take years of further research but …’

She flung herself forward, as if she had tripped over her own feet, making it look like she had gone down hard on her wrists. Letting out a girlish shriek, she sat up and clutched her left wrist, tears filling her eyes.

He crouched beside her. ‘My goodness. Are you all right?’

She blinked up at him. ‘My wrist … it really hurts. I think I might have broken it.’

‘I’m sure …’

She interrupted him with a cry. ‘Oh, Dr Larter, it really hurts. I need to put some ice on it immediately. I guess if I …’ she moaned ‘… go downstairs they might be able to help me.’

Men were so predictable. The damsel in distress, the beautiful woman in need of help – especially one who had pumped up his ego with praise – there was no way he would leave her to fend for herself.

‘Let me call down for you, get someone to bring up some ice,’ he said.

She nodded pathetically. ‘That would be … so kind. I’ll go into my room and wait.’

‘No, no, come into my room. I’ll call them from there and tell them how urgent it is. Look, here we are.’

He put his arm round her and helped her up, and she made sure to lean into him, to press her warm body against his, so he would feel the swell of her breasts. He produced his keycard and a moment later they were inside. He hurried over to the phone and she reached behind her and locked the door while he wasn’t looking. Then pulled a small pistol from her boot.

As he picked up the phone to call the hotel desk, she said in an urgent tone, ‘Dr Larter.’

He turned and his mouth fell open. She enjoyed seeing the expression on his face: the shock and confusion.

‘Put down the phone,’ she commanded, aiming the gun at his forehead.

‘What are you doing?’

She stepped towards him. ‘Get on the bed,’ she said.

He froze. ‘Miss Tyler,’ he said with a shaking voice. ‘I’m only a scientist … I don’t have any money …’

‘I said, get on the bed. I have no interest in your fucking money.’

He let out a weird noise, like a squeak, and half-turned. She moved quickly, aiming a kick at his back, sending him crashing into the bedside table, the phone and lamp tumbling to the floor. She grabbed him by his jacket and pushed him on to the bed, straddling him and holding the gun to his temple.

‘What do you want?’ he asked, trying to stay calm. But his terror and shock were making him shake.

‘Take off your jacket and shirt,’ she commanded.

‘What?’

Confusion flitted across his face, but he obeyed, pulling off his jacket, then unbuttoning his shirt. It was almost funny. Did he think she wanted his body? He had no idea how much he disgusted her, how nauseous his pale, flabby body made her feel.

‘Now lie on the bed, and don’t move. If you do, I’ll shoot you in the balls. Understand?’

He nodded. There were tears in his eyes. Pathetic, how some people crumbled at the first sign of pressure. It astounded her sometimes how weak most people were. If they had been through what she had experienced in her life, they would end up killing themselves or going insane.

She really hoped he didn’t soil himself. That would be highly inconvenient. She decided she needed to calm him down.

‘I’m not going to hurt you, Dr Larter. So try to relax. Close your eyes, OK?’

He did as she asked, his eyelids flickering like they were resisting his attempts to keep them shut.

She straddled him on the bed, ignoring the smell of alcohol that wafted off him – wondering if, despite his fear, he would grow hard from the feeling of her warm, leather-clad body against his crotch. It had been known to happen. Other men had died with an erection and a smile on their lips. That wasn’t going to be Larter’s fate, though.

She reached behind her and pulled off her backpack, unzipping the front pocket and producing a syringe that she had already prepared with a colourless, odourless liquid. GHB. She took hold of Isaac’s arm and slipped the needle in, injecting the drug directly into a vein before he could pull his arm away.

‘What was that?’ he asked, alarmed, opening his eyes.

She pointed the gun at his face. ‘Close your eyes. It was just something to help you relax. Now, keep quiet.’

She checked her watch. The drug would take effect in fifteen to twenty minutes, leaving Dr Larter intensely drowsy and disorientated. The fact he had already consumed several glasses of alcohol helped. After a while, he stopped trying to open his eyes. He wasn’t unconscious but was relaxed, probably feeling as if he was in a dream. His heart rate would have slowed, and beneath the drowsiness he would be experiencing a mild euphoria. He was in the perfect state for what she needed to do.

‘Don’t go to sleep, Dr Larter,’ she whispered.

A smile appeared on his lips.

‘I need you to sit up, OK?’

Again, he obeyed. ‘Good boy,’ she said. Then she unzipped the main compartment of her backpack.

A little while later, Angelica led Isaac out of the room. She had put his shirt and jacket back on, buttoning the jacket across his belly. She held him by the crook of his arm, leading him slowly down the corridor towards the elevator. To anyone who might pass, he would look like a drunk being helped along by, well, she probably looked like a call girl.

They took the elevator back to the ground floor and she walked him over to the ballroom. Isaac barely seemed to register where he was or what was happening. But he was still smiling faintly.

She took him inside. The drinks reception was in full swing, lots of middle-aged men and women standing around in groups of three or four, chatting, pontificating, exchanging views and business cards. She looked around for Kate Maddox, whose photo she had found online, but there was no sign of her. No matter.

She sat Isaac down on a chair near the centre of the room.

A heavyset man standing nearby grinned at them.

‘He’s had too much to drink,’ she said. ‘But he insists he doesn’t want to go to bed … again.’

The man guffawed at that and she winked at him. It didn’t matter that he’d had a very good look at her face.

‘Do you mind keeping an eye on him while I go to the ladies’ room?’ she asked. ‘I won’t be long.’

‘No problem, sweetcheeks,’ the man said, clearly wondering if he could take a turn at hiring her.

She walked out of the reception and all the way out of the hotel, back out through the revolving doors. Striding briskly away, she covered three blocks until she found her car, the sleek white Maserati, where she had parked it. She brushed aside the two Hispanic men who had stopped to admire it, whistling as they watched her climb inside.

She pulled the cellphone out of her pocket.

While Isaac had been in a semi-conscious state, she had taped three pounds of Semtex around his midriff, then covered it with a bandage. Three pounds of the plastic explosive was enough to destroy a two-storey building. Certainly sufficient to decimate the reception room at the hotel and kill everyone in it.

She thought of Dr Larter, sitting in his chair, the heavyset man probably wondering where she had got to. Larter, in his delirious state, would have no idea that beneath his shirt was the Semtex and a detonator that she could trigger by calling it from her cellphone.

She dialled the magic number now.

And heard the explosion from three blocks away, saw smoke shoot up above the rooftops. She closed her eyes and pictured the flying body parts, the carnage, the balls of flame. She could almost smell it. It made her feel hungry.

Angelica put the car into drive and headed out of the city, thinking about the end of the world.

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