The Deep Zone

Ballantine Books

ONE

Some nights, when the winds of spring rise up out ofVirginia, they peel fog from the Potomac and drape it over the branches of deadtrees trapped in the river’s black mud banks. Streamers pull free and flow intothe mews of Foggy Bottom and the cobblestoned alleys of Old Georgetown, floatover the chockablock townhouses, and finally wrap pale, wet shrouds aroundwar-fortune mansions.

A black Navigator pushed through this fog, driving weston O Street until it left behind the homes of the merely rich and entereda realm of oceanic wealth. The SUV turned onto a drive of gravel the size andcolor of corn kernels and walled on both sides by Madagascar barberry nine feettall and bristling with three-inch thorns.

In the backseat, the passenger stared at the red spikesand thought about crucifixion.

The Navigator passed through a series ofremote-controlled gates, the last of which was hung with warning signs:

DANGER

10,000 VOLTS

EXTREME HAZARD

STAY CLEAR

It stopped in front of a mansion of rust-colored brickand white marble. Flowers like red fists filled white boxes hung beneathwindows of wavy, distorted glass. Boxwoods carved into strange shapes lined thecircular receiving area in front.

The driver got out, a tall man blacker than his blacksuit, lips like overripe plums, skin smooth as polished onyx. He woresunglasses, despite the hour. His accent was thickly African: “Sair. We hair.”

The passenger stepped onto glistening cobblestones. Awarm and moist night, fog coiling around his legs, air fragrant with boxwoodand the coppery bouquet of those red flowers. The Navigator dissolved in mist.He climbed granite steps, their edges rounded off by a century and a half ofwear, to a columned, curving porch that reminded him of the foredeck of an oldsailing ship. He was reaching for the knocker, a massive brass cross hungupside down, when the door swung inward.

Standing before him was a tall woman wearing a blouse oflime-green silk and a white linen Dior skirt cut above the knee. She hadshoulder-length red hair and green eyes and she was so beautiful that lookingat her was like gazing at the sun: impossible to regard for more than seconds.

“Good evening. I am Erika. Thank you so much for coming.”Lilting, musical voice, traces of Ukraine or Belarus. She extended a hand,cool, long-fingered. She smelled faintly of gardenias.

“My pleasure.”

“Mr. Adelheid has been expecting you. Please.”

He followed her down a long, dusky hallway floored withItalian marble, smooth and white as ancient ice. In pools of yellow light onthe burgundy-painted walls hung what he took for reproductions, a van Gogh, aRenoir. Then he stopped.

“Excuse me. Is that a real Picasso?”

Erika glanced over her shoulder. “Of course. They are alloriginals.”

She brought him to a pair of doors from an old century,some European castle or palace, pushed one open, touched his arm, and left.

A man came forward holding a heavy crystal tumbler. Hewore tan gabardine slacks pressed to a knife-edged crease, a blackdouble-breasted blazer, a French blue shirt open at the collar, and a pale roseascot. The visitor had never actually met someone who wore an ascot and had tokeep himself from staring. The deep, resonant voice on the recordings had ledhim to expect someone huge and powerful, but this man was as slim as FredAstaire and moved with the same languid grace.

A man who never hurried, he thought. Not once in hislife.

For all his elegance, there was nothing effeminate aboutthe man. Quite the opposite; he moved through space like a perfectly balancedblade.

“Bernard Adelheid.” Ahdleheight. Accent here, too. Faint,indistinct. Swiss? Dutch? “We are so glad you are here. You must be extremelybusy.”

“You know government. Too much work, too few people.Always.”

“Always.” A handshake, mild, dry, brief. “What do youdrink?”

“What are you having there?”

“Fifty-year-old Laphroaig, neat.” He held his crystaltumbler aloft. The room was high-ceilinged and dimly lit and the golden whiskeyseemed to collect light from the tall white candles in brass wall sconces.There was a fireplace the two of them could have walked into. He could not seeinto the farthest corners of the room.

A hundred dollars a glass if it’s a cent, he thought.“I’ll have the same, then.”

Mr. Adelheid poured him four fingers from a Baccaratdecanter on a sideboard of medieval proportions. They clinked glasses and thehost spoke in German:

“Mögest du alle Tage deines Lebens leben!”

They drank, and Mr. Adelheid said, “A very old toast.Eleventh or twelfth century. From the Teutonic Order, some say. Or perhaps derBruderschaft St. Christoph. It goes, ‘May you live all the days of your life.’”

“Good advice. Even if easier said than done.”

“Not if one has the means.”

He raised his own tumbler, swirled the liquor, inhaledits spirit, a scent like lightning-struck oak.

“Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“Beyond words.”

“As some things are.”

“Including this house.” He could feel the halls andcountless dark rooms winding around him like the passages and chambers of agreat cave, dark space with weight, pressing, a sense of threat. “Is thisyours?”

“Is my name on the deed? No. It belongs to a family of myacquaintance.”

“It looks very old.”

“Built in 1854 by Uriah Sadler. A shipowner.”

“What kinds of ships did he own?”

Mr. Adelheid smiled. “Fast ships with big holds and hardcrews. He was a slave trader.”

He thought of the black man who had let him out of thecar. “Your own crew. Impressive.”

“You mean Adou. Yes. A Ugandan. Mostly civilized.”

He saw chopped limbs, brained babies, changed thesubject. “The place is huge.”

“And bigger than what you can see. Captain Sadler hadunusual tastes even for a slaver. The cellar beneath is vast. Rooms withgranite walls and drains. To contain the screams and flush the blood, I’ve beentold.”

“A horrible time.” He could think of nothing else to say.

Mr. Adelheid sipped, watched him. “I hope you will stayto dine with me.”

“I had planned on it.”

“Wonderful. Please, come and sit.”

They took places at a table set for four. Crystal and silversparkled on white linen. He had never been good at small talk, but Mr. Adelheidwas extraordinary, so after a while he felt as though he were in one of thoseforeign films where people speak endlessly across fabulous tables, everyutterance freighted with wit and irony. They talked about Washington’sexecrable weather, the visitor’s workload, AfPak, one subject flowing smoothlyinto the next. Mr. Adelheid made a story about hunting wild boar in Russiasound like an elegant fable.

A waiter appeared, removed his empty tumbler, replaced itwith a full one.

“Shall we begin with some Strangford Lough oysters?” Mr.Adelheid smiled, then looked abashed. “I’m so sorry. You do like oysters, don’tyou?”

The few raw oysters he had ever eaten had made him thinkof toilet bowls. “Absolutely,” he said.

The waiter set down silver plates with the slick, pinkthings in iridescent shells on crushed ice. Mr. Adelheid tipped one to hislips, slurped, savored. Steeling himself, the guest did the same. A taste likevery dry champagne with a hint of salt wind. He smiled, agreeably startled.

“Incredible, no? I could eat them every day.” Mr.Adelheid lifted another. “This morning they were in the Irish Sea.”

They concentrated on the oysters. He had always knownthat certain people lived this way: palatial homes on estates that sprawledlike counties, enormous yachts, exquisite women, the food and drink of royalty.Relishing ecstasies every day about which he could only fantasize.

He had never known how such lives were made. Now he mightlearn.

...

When he had finished eating the oysters, Mr. Adelheidpushed his plate aside, dabbed his lips.

“Let us speak now. You have a very important job atBARDA. The Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Created in 2006 by President George W. Bush to counterbiowarfare threats and responsible for, among other initiatives, ProjectBioShield.”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating work, I imagine. Would you care to tell meabout it?”

He paused while the waiter set down new plates. Velvety,chocolate-colored filets in a scarlet sauce. “Medallions of Black Forestvenison with Madeira and black truffles,” Mr. Adelheid said. Then wine, pouredinto crystal goblets from a bottle with a label like parchment. He had drunkwine, of course, even, on a few occasions, in very expensive restaurants. Nowhe understood that he had never tasted great wine.

How many other great things had evaded him in this life?He suddenly felt regret so intense it made his eyes glisten. Too quickly, hebrought the wine glass to his mouth, spilling a few drops onto the immaculatetablecloth, embarrassing himself. His moist eyes, the soiled linen—he feltthick and stupid in the presence of this polished man.

“I do microbiology. MDRBs.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Multiple-drug-resistant bacteria.”

“Is it like in the movies? You know, exotic germs, thatkind of thing?”

A little flare inside him. “Calling them germs is likecalling diamonds rocks. They are miracles of evolution. And beautiful. Think ofa spiral nebula on the head of a pin. Every color in the universe.”

“You speak of them as friends.”

“We get along well. I respect them. And admire their goodqualities.”

“Which are?”

“Astonishing evolutionary speed, for one.”

“Do you work in space suits?”

“Sometimes. Those in BSL-4.”

“What does that mean, exactly, ‘BSL-4’?”

“Biosafety Level Four. The highest security level.Positive-pressure environments. Chemturion protective suits. Respirators.Disinfectant showers and ultraviolet germicidal lights. Double-door air locks.Unbreakable labware.”

Mr. Adelheid nodded, touched his right ear with the tipsof two fingers. The door swung open and Erika walked in. Even moving, sheseemed to be in repose. Everything about her was . . . perfect. Her legs, body,face, eyes—not one dissonant curve or angle.

“Good evening, Erika. Would you care for a drink? Somechampagne, perhaps?”

“No thank you, sir.”

She sat, crossed her magnificent legs, and somethingcaught in his chest.

“Erika, you have met our friend.” No name offered, noneasked for.

“Enchantée.”

“Would you like to spend time with our friend?”

“I would love to.” A voice like chimes, exultant, as ifit were the greatest opportunity life had offered.

He almost dropped his fork, fumbled, felt like a fool.

“Would you find that agreeable?” Mr. Adelheid smiled athim.

He hesitated, thoroughly unsure how to respond.

“We could have Christina come in. Or Gisele.”

“No, no.” He reddened. “No. I mean, yes, of course, Iwould find that agreeable.”

“And Erika, would you like to accommodate our friend’swishes?”

“Oh, yes.” She placed her fingertips on the back of hishand, four small, cool circles on his hot skin. There was something about theway she moved, slowly, dreamily, as though underwater. “There is a villa in theMediterranean, on an island all its own, with a waterfall in the bedroom.Floors of pink marble, walls of glass.” She flicked her eyes at Mr. Adelheid.

He smiled. “No rules we do not make, the only laws thoseof nature.”

His thoughts twirled, huge black eyes, white fog, shiningoysters, golden whiskey, scarlet wine, a turquoise sea scattered with flakes oflight. This woman’s scent, heavier now, gardenia sweet. He closed his eyes,breathed.

I could use some air.

“Thank you, Erika.” She rose and turned to their guest.

“I hope to see you again.”

“And I . . . yes, me, too.”

He watched her leave, moving through space as thoughwithout weight.

“To the victors go the spoils.” Mr. Adelheid raised hisglass again.

“God in heaven.” He drank, eyes closed.

“Would you like to learn more?”

“That’s why I came.”

Mr. Adelheid nodded. “Fine. But let us enjoy this goodfood first. We should never rush our pleasures.”

“Live our lives.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Adelheid did something in the air with hisright hand, some ancient benediction, and picked up his knife. They ate in anisland of light in the great shadowed room. With a silver knife he cut thevenison and forked to his mouth pieces dripping with sauce. They ate and didnot speak, the only sounds in the room those of their chewing and breathing andthe insistent buzzing of one invisible fly.

TWO

The light in the room rippled, candle flames dancing withcurrents of air. He ate, drank wine, so overwashed with pleasures he forgot forlong moments who and where he was.

After a time, with half of his venison uneaten, Mr.Adelheid laid down his silver, dabbed his lips. His fingers were slim and verylong, tendrils with shining tips.

To leave food like that. His own plate had been clean forsome minutes.

“Well. We would be very grateful for your help.”

“Leave BARDA and come to work for you?” He did not knowwho Mr. Adelheid worked for. But surely it would be made clear. Or would it?

“No. Not leave BARDA.”

“A mole, then.” Crude. He regretted it immediately, blushed.

The fly, buzzing again. An expression passed across Mr.Adelheid’s face, like clouds scudding over the moon. “An observer.”

“What would you want me to observe?”

“Most antibiotics today are derived from one originalsource, is that not true?”

“Yes. Actinomycetales. Discovered in 1940 by SelmanWaksman. He got the Nobel for that work.”

“But germs are winning the battle. So I have heard.”

“Hundreds of thousands of people die every year frombacterial infections we can no longer treat. In the U.S. alone. Other places,the numbers are . . . appalling.”

“Hundreds of thousands of reported deaths. The true totalis much higher, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Did renal failure or hospital-acquiredinfection kill Mr. Jones? One checkmark in a different box on a report. An easychoice for dirty hospitals. Which most are.”

“And your facility—BARDA—is trying to produce an entirelynew family of antibiotics.”

“Among other projects. But yes, that is one main thrustof the work.”

Mr. Adelheid smoothed his ascot. How old was the man? Thevisitor could not say with any certainty. Forty or sixty. His skin was smooth,eyes bright, movements lithe. But there was something ancient about him,Sphinx-like, an inscrutable repose.

“Consider this. The new currency of power isinformation,” Mr. Adelheid said.

“Really?” The Laphroaig and the wine were making himbolder. “So given the choice between a ton of gold and a terabyte ofinformation, you’d take the terabyte?”

“On the surface, an easy choice. A ton of gold today is worth$45 million. No paltry sum. But: what if you have golden information? Do youhave any idea how much money has been made from Dr. Waksman’s antibiotics?”

“Billions, I would guess.”

“Trillions.”

“Don’t you have politicians who can help you?”

“Of course we have politicians. And others. But no onelike you.”

“So what do you need, exactly?”

“Exactly? At this very moment? Nothing. But there willcome a time. Very soon, we think.”

Keeping his eyes on the table, he said, “You want me tobe a spy.”

Mr. Adelheid made a sound as if clearing somethingunpleasant from his throat. “Spies make death. Our wish is not to take livesbut to save them.”

“For a profit.”

“Of course for a profit.” His tone suggested that anyalternative would be irrational, like living without breathing. “What aremillions of human lives worth?”

“Priceless.”

Mr. Adelheid regarded him in silence for a moment. “Youknow of Reinhold Messner? The great mountaineer?”

“I know he climbed Mount Everest solo.”

“And without oxygen. In Europe, a god. Messner said,‘From such places you do not return unchanged.’ ”

“I don’t climb.”

“Mountains are not the only realms from which we may notreturn unchanged.”

Mr. Adelheid reached into his blazer, produced a slip ofgreen paper the size of a playing card. He slid it to the middle of the table.A deposit ticket from Grand Cayman National Bank for Fifty thousand and 00/100dollars, payable not to a name but to an eleven-digit alphanumeric sequence.

“An appreciation for the pleasure of your company thisevening. You need only the PIN. Which I will give you.”

“For doing what?”

 

Continues...

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Excerpted from The Deep Zone by James M. Tabor Copyright © 2012 by James M. Tabor. Excerpted by permission of Ballantine Books, a division of Random House, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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