Silent Assassin(68)

Vogt was a mycologist at the University of Mainz—or perhaps it was more accurate to say that he had been. He studied fungal infections, with a specialization in the rare and the unusual. Two months before, the American had come to him with a proposition to come work for him, for less than a year, he had been told. It was an inordinate amount of money, but it was also a huge commitment, which had the potential to seriously sidetrack his career. When Vogt demurred, the American promptly doubled the amount, tripled if he went at once. The university wouldn’t give him a sabbatical, but for that kind of money, he could afford to start his own lab if he wanted to. He was told to choose his own lab assistants, so he extended an offer to two of his best and most promising students, Flora and Julian, to come work for him. They had jumped at the opportunity to do cutting-edge research for pay, both of them being ambitious researchers and completely broke, as students tend to be.

The location had been strange, and had made them slightly nervous. They did not know where they were, except that they were not in Europe anymore, but rather in a dry, rocky area. An advance deposit had been made to each of their bank accounts. Flora in particular had grown suspicious, and her conscience told her that there was something sinister about this. She was not alone in that, but she had expressed the greatest resistance. In the end, however, they had agreed that it was best not to ask too many questions. Such an opportunity did not come along every day, after all.

They had been greeted by the American and another man, the Russian, who himself spoke German to near perfection. The laboratory was something from a dream—state-of-the-art equipment, everything he could have asked for, and everything in pristine condition. It also turned out to be a prison. They had told the guards that they wanted to go home. The guards informed them that they had orders to shoot anyone who tried to leave. They tried their best to ignore the armed guards, but it wasn’t easy to set into a routine, knowing that they were ultimately there against their will. Then came the documents for them to read, all about the fungus they were to work with once a sample came in. It was horrible, and it made them sick. They would, of course, readily work to produce a cure for such a horror. But it was clear that a cure was not what their employers were after.

Flora had refused even to read more of the packets that had been brought. She had decided that she was done with the whole thing. At first she’d made a point of conspicuously staring at the wall, but after one of the guards threatened to hurt her if she continued, she at least pretended to read. Vogt was sure that results would be demanded of him, so he read. And it was while he was reading that the door to the lab opened, startling him.

It was the Russian. He was wearing the same kind of turtleneck he had worn before, and all black. But this time, half his face was covered in bandages, and blood was seeping through them. He did not look happy.

“Oh my God, what happened?”

“Shut up,” said the Russian. “It’s none of your concern. I have a sample for you to work with.” He placed an array of vials kept in a small steel and Plexiglas case. “But first,” the Russian said, “you will check me for infection.”

The information packets had described a test based on a protein that, according to the packet they had been given, was produced by the fungus in the body. Vogt had kept some test solution prepared, knowing that he would inevitably need it. He carefully took some blood from the Russian’s arm and mixed it into four test tubes with a prepared solution, as his two assistants looked on. The contents of each turned blue when the blood was added.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said nervously. “The test is positive.” He winced, not knowing what was coming when he found out.

The Russian responded by overturning the table with the test tubes, which cracked on the floor, tiny shards spreading across the room.

“I want a cure!” said the Russian. “And I want it to be made viable as a weapon.”

“When do you need it?” asked Vogt sheepishly.

“I have no time to waste,” said the Russian. “I want it in two weeks.”

“What?” said Vogt, baffled. “Impossible!”

“You will make it possible,” said the Russian. “If you value your lives.”

Flora stepped forward at that moment. “I will not make weapons,” she said defiantly, her chin up and her eyes holding an expression of righteous anger. “I will not release this abomination on the world.”

The Russian looked at her with eyes of pure fury. He backhanded her across the face. Vogt made a move as if to help, but checked himself, and then looked down in shame. It was hard to be pragmatic sometimes, but he must. Heroics could get them all killed.