A few minutes later, after donning protective suits, including gas masks
attached to metal air tanks on backpacks, they descended the aluminum steps to the
basement in which Dr. Vaja Nikoladze, internationally acclaimed biochemist, Soviet
defector, and peace activist, had built his laboratory to culture biological agents
for terror. Nikki thought, This is a James Bond villain’s lair with bad lighting.
In size, it equaled the footprint of the building above and housed a fully stocked
scientific lab, complete with test tubes and beakers, a centrifuge, and thermo-glass
isolation chambers with safety glove sets built into the front panels. Four high-
tech refrigeration units had labels stuck to the doors, but instead of the Little
League pictures or dental appointment reminders found on most reefer doors, the
labels were in Latin—some of the names Heat recognized from the CDC research she’d
been reading: Bacillus anthracis; Vibrio cholerae; Ricinus communis; Filoviridae
Ebola; Filoviridae Marburg; Variola major. Like sentries along a countertop stood
numerous hermetically sealed, cylindrical stainless steel containers, each slapped
with a bright orange sticker displaying the universal symbol for biohazard. “Love
the stickers,” said Bell, her voice muffled by the mask. “As if he didn’t know
what he was handling.”
“The question remains,” said Nikki. “Who was he handling it for? We still need to
find them.”
Heat and the DHS agents left the basement to the technicians and their sampling
equipment, ascending the steps burdened by the worst piece of news: There was a gap
in the row of sealed canisters, and the space was marked with a circular ring left
on the counter. It appeared that one of the twenty-gallon containers had been
removed and was unaccounted for.
Topside, a forensic specialist on his knees inside the cage called them over. She
indicated the drain in the floor and said, “This cage has been hosed and scoured
with a laboratory grade solvent. It’s going to make DNA sampling a bear.” Then she
rose and beckoned them to a spot on the inside cage wall where she held up an
instrument that appeared to be an oversized cell phone. The plasma screen filled
with an extreme close-up of the grating with a video-enhanced quality. “See what I
’m picking up here?”
“That blood?”
“It is. And, unless one of those dogs is this tall, it’s probably human. I’ll
swab and test.”
“Nicole Bernardin would have been the right height,” said Heat. “And she had a
stab wound that would have been in her back about there.”
“I could see someone backing into that and leaving a smear,” said the forensic
tech. “I’m also picking up fibers. Do you have the clothing from your victim?”
“I do.”
“Get it to me. I’ll be able to give you an answer in the morning.”
In her dream state, Nikki assumed that the tempo of the dew plink on her windshield
had picked up until she opened her eyes to find one of the DHS agents softly rapping
his knuckle on her side window. “Sorry, Detective, I tried not to startle you,” he
said when she got out and stretched an unappeasable back cramp. “We finally found
his cell phone.”
The evidence bag with the phone inside it sat on the galley table between Agents
Callan and Bell in the RV command center. After walking more than four hours of
grids in the woods, the flashlight team Heat had squinted at in her doze had located
it not far from Nikoladze’s ATV escape path. “Mind if I see it?” asked Heat.
Yardley Bell pinched a corner of the plastic bag and handed it over to Nikki. While
Heat unsealed the pouch, Bell said, “Oh, we ran a Customs check on the nutty
professor. Vaja Nikoladze made three trips to Russia this year.”
“Probably accessed the smallpox culture there somehow and smuggled it out to grow
here.” Nikki held up the phone. “Anybody got a stylus? I don’t want to touch the
screen.” The communications geek at the console whipped his out with fast-draw
speed and seemed quite pleased with himself. Holding the phone in her gloved hand,
Heat opened the window for Recents.