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action wascalled for. I’d remind the gentleman that our science has come a long way since then—as has our ability to identify, and respond to, a critical danger to public health.”
    “Fine,” the senator fired back. “ You tell that to the President. Better still, tell the people of the United States they have to line up and get injected with some goddamn witches’ brew—one that doesn’t even exist yet.”
    Next to him, a woman in a tailored suit nodded in grim agreement; Beck recognized her as the surgeon general and assumed that a similarly serious-looking woman seated alongside was her aide.
    Beck frowned, calculating the collective stature of the people at this table. Health and Human Services was Cabinet level, the surgeon general only a half-step below; add to that at least one senator, an assortment of expensive Brooks Brothers suits, and an impressive number of uniformed military, none of them below flag rank.
    The heavy hitters were here in force, he realized.
    A thin blue plume rose from one of the chairs, catching his attention. The occupant was facing away from the door where Beck, Krewell and Wheelwright had entered. Only the balding dome of the back of his head was visible, but Beck felt a sudden flash of recognition.
    Carson, Beck thought. Of course, it would have to be Carson.
    As if he heard Beck’s thoughts, Billy Carson, national security advisor to the President, swiveled to look back at the entering trio. His face showed no sign of greeting, though his eyes locked on Beck’s for what seemed like a long moment.
    Then he turned away, leaning toward a stocky man in a short-sleeved white shirt who sat to his right. He murmured what might have been advice or instructions, then raised his voice to address the rest of the room.
    “If I may. Please.”
    As always, Beck found the tone surprisingly mild, matching an appearance that would have better fit a stereotypicalmidlevel bureaucrat than the de facto head of the U.S. intelligence community. It was easy to underestimate Carson on the basis of how he looked and acted; in Beck’s personal experience, a number of people had done just that, to their regret. In one notable instance, an undersecretary of defense had wondered aloud how “such a goddamn shoe-store clerk” could have risen so high in the intelligence community.
    The remark had since become famous in the upper circles of government.
    The undersecretary had seen neither the intellect nor the fierce pride that burned behind Carson’s calculatedly mild demeanor. Only when the hapless official had found himself quietly outflanked and outmaneuvered had he looked closer, and by then it was too late to salvage his own career. The erstwhile undersecretary had left government, ironically to join a corporation that supplied footwear to the Army.
    Beck had heard the story any number of times, even after he had left the job that kept him in regular contact with Carson. It had become a legend, and even the incumbent President was among those who regularly repeated the story. But rumor said he was the only one who did not smile when he told it.
    Now Carson’s quiet tone sliced through the debate like a bayonet.
    “Thank you,” he said. “Dr. Porter tells me he is prepared to address the nature of the situation we are facing. It might be valuable to hear him now.”
    Krewell touched Beck’s arm. “Ray Porter heads CDC’s Bio-Pathogen Forensics,” he said in a low voice. “Knows his business. This guy, believe what he says about anything medical.” They moved to the chairs behind Carson, where Wheelwright was already seated.
    Porter fiddled with the keyboard, and an image lit up the room’s large screen. It was a gray-and-white photo of what looked like fuzzy cotton balls, each corralled by a thick variegated circle. There were a number of them lumped togetherso tightly that some of the circles had flexed into the shape of hens’ eggs.
    “What you’re looking at is an electron