All Fall Down

‘This is Tosca McCarthy,’ Kate told Junko. ‘He’s an FBI agent. And a bit of a joker. But at least he’s a gentleman.’ Junko inclined her head towards him, and led them both up the stairs. Adoncia had vanished, with a loud ‘tut’ – presumably it had been her job to show Kate to her room.

Junko paused on the landing of the first floor. A thick steel door stood in front of them. ‘The lab is through here – more secure on the first floor, and better light. It’s a great facility. But we’ll take a look at it later, after you have freshened up.’

She continued up another flight, and Kate sniffed discreetly at her own armpits, blushing at the thought of how obvious it might be that she needed a shower. McCarthy was puffing and panting behind them, sounding like a stressed buffalo. ‘Jeez, ladies, you got rocks in here?’

‘Who else is in the team?’ Kate asked Junko, ignoring McCarthy’s grumbles. ‘Is everyone here? Have you started already?’

‘We’re starting tomorrow morning,’ Junko said, smiling back at her over her shoulder. ‘The Aeromedical Isolation team are bringing us in a patient at dawn, via army helicopter – assuming he lasts the night. It will be great to have some live tissue samples to work with so early on. Professor Kolosine from Yale is heading up the team. He got here two days ago. I met him when I arrived this morning.’

Kate stopped short on the stairs, causing McCarthy to bump into the back of her. ‘The Glenn Kolosine? Are you serious?’

She felt a frisson of excitement, as if Junko had told her she’d be working with Sir Isaac Newton. Kolosine was a legend among virologists, having made a number of important breakthroughs in the studies of some of the big hitters of the viral world: he had been instrumental in developing a vaccine for SARS; and led a team that mapped the DNA of Ebola and Marburg. She was surprised he hadn’t been at the conference, though he had a reputation for being a lone wolf so presumably he avoided things like that. Luckily for him.

Junko rolled her eyes very slightly. ‘Yes, I’m serious. And so is he … as you’ll soon discover.’

Kate wondered what she meant by that, but felt too worn out to question her. She craved the welcome hot pinpricks of water from a long shower on her tired head and shoulders, and the sound of Paul’s voice in her ear. She had already decided not to call Jack for a few days, as difficult as that would be – she knew from experience that it always tended to make him decide he was missing her, even if he’d been perfectly fine before she called. Vernon had promised that he would let Jack ring her if he wanted to.

They arrived on the second floor, and Junko led them down a dingy hallway decorated with self-conscious Americana: beribboned corncobs in shallow woven baskets on reproduction dressers, rag rugs on the dark wooden floors, a doleful-looking rocking horse. ‘Hard to imagine there’s a Cat 4 lab downstairs, isn’t it?’ she commented, opening a door at the end of the hall.

Kate’s room was pleasant, a patchwork quilt on the double bed, calico curtains and a washstand with a large china bowl and jug on it. The sickly smell of potpourri permeated the air, and Kate flung open the nearest window as soon as she walked in.

‘What’s the plan for tomorrow?’ she asked Junko, as McCarthy heaved her suitcase on to a luggage stand next to the bed.

‘Breakfast at seven. Adoncia’s cooking makes up for her lack of social skills, so don’t miss it. You’ll meet the others then: the other virologist, Chip Oakley, and the technicians – I haven’t learned their names yet. Well, I’m going to bed now. Sleep well, see you in the morning.’

‘Good night.’ Kate sat down on the bed and watched as Junko and McCarthy retreated, closing the door behind them. The house felt utterly silent. She reached into her handbag and got out her mobile phone – but there was absolutely no signal, and no telephone in the room either. She sighed, flopped back on to the pillows, and was asleep within seconds.

She was awoken by a light knock at the door.

‘Ready for breakfast?’ called Junko, and Kate sat bolt upright. She felt a flutter in her belly. It was time to meet the rest of the team.

10

Paul watched the car containing Kate and Agent McCarthy retreat into the distance. He clenched his fists, kept his breathing slow and deliberate, and counted to ten in his head. The BMW he and Harley were in started its own slow crawl out of the airfield, and Paul thought he would snap if Harley tried to speak to him now.

The last couple of years, this anger was something he had to deal with whenever he was under pressure. His therapist, the same woman who talked to him about the bad dreams that soaked his sheets at night, had taught him a number of anger management techniques. Breathe deeply. Count. Remove yourself from the situation.

Paul exhaled through slightly parted lips, closed his eyes for a moment, and regained his composure. He did not like this new, bitter, person he seemed to have turned into. Often, he wished he could turn back the clock to become once again the man he was when he first met Kate, before the discovery of what had happened to Stephen had knocked his world off its axis. His faith in humanity had been badly damaged and he wanted to regain it, to see the good in people again.

He wanted to find peace – so he could move on, be the man he was meant to be, a supportive, dynamic partner, a great stepdad, and maybe a dad too, if Kate was up for it. But it was hard for him to get close to that peace when some of the men who were connected to Stephen’s death were still free.

Finally, when his heartbeat had returned to a steady pace, he turned to Harley. ‘Where are we going?’

‘First thing tomorrow we’re heading to the field office in San Francisco,’ Harley replied. ‘Once we’re there, we’ll find somewhere to put you up while you wait for Kate. Or you can return to the UK, if you prefer.’

‘No way. I’m staying right here till she’s done.’

‘OK. But you realise you could have a long wait?’

Paul felt the anger coming straight back again. Fucking Harley. He had never met anyone who was able to wind him up so easily. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

Harley shrugged. ‘It’s your choice. Anyway, it’s been a long day. We’re going to check in to a motel and rest up till the morning.’

‘Whatever,’ Paul replied, giving the floor once again to his inner teenager. Turning to the dusky landscape rolling by the window, he began counting to ten again.

Agent DiFranco pulled up by a motel on the west side of Bakersfield. Despite the hour, it was still stiflingly hot. Paul was desperate for a shower, and his eyes burned from lack of sleep. Harley was right; it had been a long, long day.

The motel clerk, a skinny brunette with her hair piled up on her head and a tattoo of a panther on her upper arm, checked them in to three rooms.

‘Y’all from England?’ she asked on hearing Harley and Paul’s accents. ‘Do you know Radiohead?’

‘Not personally,’ Harley replied drily.

Paul caught her eye, shooting her a look that said, ‘Yeah, this guy’s a jerk,’ and she smiled at him, revealing a gap in her teeth you could drive a motorbike through. She handed each of them a key and told them their room numbers. Paul and Harley were in adjacent rooms; DiFranco a few doors down.

‘Cellphone reception is lousy in the rooms,’ she said, ‘but we got wi-fi if you need it.’

‘Great,’ said Paul, drawing another smile from the receptionist. She reminded him a little of poor Amy Winehouse.

‘I don’t think we’ll be needing that,’ Harley said. DiFranco snickered, for no good reason Paul could tell. When the receptionist turned to get their keys, Paul saw DiFranco take a good, long look at her behind, actually tilting his head to one side. Creep.

As Paul unlocked his room, he heard DiFranco say to Harley, ‘Hey, we should have a talk.’ He kept the door open a crack and listened, hoping he might catch something they said, but they had moved out of earshot.

He stripped and showered, then took a clean T-shirt and pair of boxers out of his suitcase. The room was like the inside of a car that had been parked in the sun all day; dog-killing weather. He examined the air-con unit and concluded that it was a piece of junk. A great weariness washed over him. He didn’t have the energy to complain or ask for another room.

Instead, he opened the window, which gave a view of a row of cars and the freeway beyond, and lay down on the creaky bed. He picked up his iPhone, wanting to call or at least text Kate. The receptionist was right: he had half a bar of signal that flickered on and off; he sent a text telling Kate he loved her, was sorry about earlier and would call her in the morning. He added four kisses.

He closed his eyes. He’d slept in worse places – prison, for one.

When he next opened his eyes it was dark. It took him a few moments to remember where he was. A crap motel,

a long way from home. Alone.

He could hear someone talking outside the window. He rolled on to his side and groped for his phone to check the time. Half past midnight. He crept to the window and stood behind the curtain. The voice outside belonged to Harley. After a moment, when he couldn’t hear another voice, Paul realised Harley was on the phone, obviously forced outside by the poor mobile reception.

He pressed his face to the glass. Harley was standing by their car, his back to Paul, who could make out the odd word. ‘Report … spreading fast … Bakersfield …’

Paul quickly pulled a chair across the room and stood on it so he could listen through the open window, his body concealed by the curtain and the darkness inside the room. If he really strained he found he could hear almost everything.

‘So what do you want me to do?’ Harley went on. ‘No, I’m heading back to San Francisco in the morning. I’ve

got Paul Wilson with me. Yeah, yeah … I know.’ He laughed. Paul didn’t think the person on the other end of the phone was praising his good qualities. What was that expression about people who eavesdrop never hearing good things about themselves? ‘Thankfully, Kate Maddox is a lot more cooperative. Yeah, I know – I had to tell her a white lie to get her to agree.’

Paul got that feeling you get in your stomach when you go over a bump in the road. His suspicions were right: Harley couldn’t be trusted.

The MI6 man went on: ‘Yeah, Wilson is obsessed with what happened to his brother, Stephen. The guy that Gaunt was …’

To Paul’s great frustration, Harley began to wander away, his voice growing quieter until he couldn’t hear it any more. He slapped the wall with frustration.