Tunnels 05 - Spiral

the First Lady were rushed out of the theater by their protection officers.
    Although the records showed that Jenny had no known terrorist affiliations or political interests other than having once been a member of the Young Conservatives, it was assumed she’d somehow smuggled a device into the theater. But this conflicted with all the security camera footage and forensic evidence, which pointed to something extremely bizarre.
    It appeared that the explosion had come from within her, and the detailed analytical work supported this because much of her body mass was missing from the blast scene.
    The theory quickly emerged that Jenny’s internal organs had been removed to make room for a two-part explosive, which, when mixed, became a potent weapon.
    This very ordinary housewife from London, who would most likely have died anyway within a few days from the horrific mutilation of her body, had been a walking bomb.

    On his way home after work, the man emerged from the Tube station and turned right onto Camden High Street. With his glasses and neat appearance, he had a studious air about him as he surveyed the disparate groups of people in the area.
    In the last decade, the market at Camden Lock had become a popular destination for black-clad teenagers who hung around the various boutiques and covered markets. But in among them, even at this hour in the evening, there was still a smattering of tourists hoping to catch the last boat tour down to Little Venice, or to see the sequence of working locks on the canal itself.
    In his sober suit, the man was rather at odds with the meretricious displays in the shop windows of brightly colored boots and leather belts with large brass buckles of screaming skulls or crossed bullets.
    He came to a sudden stop just before the bridge over the canal, then stepped back from the edge of the pavement to allow a phalanx of Australian tourists to pass. Taking a cell phone from his jacket, the man appeared to start speaking on it, chuckling as he did so.
    “Call that a disguise?” he said. “You’re far too old to pull off the goth look.”
    Several feet away, in a shadowy bay between two buildings, Drake laughed. “Maybe, but you know they’re called emos these days. Anyway, I’m still a big fan of The Cure,” he said.
    Drake pulled farther back into the shadows, pressing himself against the pitted Victorian brickwork. Decked out in a loose-fitting black combat jacket and trousers, he had a pair of Doc Martens on his feet. But this wasn’t what the man had found so amusing; Drake had completely shaved his head, and sported a mustache and goatee. He’d topped this off with a pair of small round sunglasses, the lenses mirrored.
    “Thought you might be in touch,” the man said as his expression became serious. “I followed up on the three Dominion specimens we lodged —”
    “But they’ve vanished from the pathogen banks,” Drake interrupted. “And there’ll be no trace of them on the main database anymore.”
    “How . . . ?!” the man exclaimed. “How do you know that?” He began to turn toward Drake.
    “No!” Drake warned. “They might be watching.”
    The man turned toward the road again, nodding as if he was agreeing with the person on the other end of his phone conversation.
    “And that’s why I badly need your help,” Drake went on. “I need you, Charlie, my favorite immunologist, to cook up some more Dominion vaccine for me, then I’ll figure out another way to distribute it. And I’ve got some other stuff I want you to look at for me.”
    “Your
favorite
immunologist?” Charlie repeated with mock indignation. “Bet I’m the
only
immunologist you can call on, and certainly the only one stupid enough to risk his life for you.” Taking a breath, he asked, “So how do we go about it this time?”
    “When you get home, you’ll find a package hidden out back behind your trash bin — I’ve left some more blood samples in it, and also some viral specimens I grabbed from the Colony.” Drake paused as a woman passed Charlie on the pavement, then he resumed. “There’s a really nasty strain in there — a killer — so watch how you handle it.”
    “We treat every pathogen as if it’s the Great Plague,” Charlie said.
    “That’s uncannily near the truth,” Drake whispered, his voice grim. “Now you’d better not hang around here any longer. I’ll swing by your place in a few days.”
    “OK,” Charlie said, pretending to press the button