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did it. She whirled, eyes flashing. “I know exactly what it’sa matter of. What, BARDA didn’t screw up my life enough already?”
    The agents exchanged glances. Then Fortier said, “You’re right. We
are
here because of someone from BARDA.”
    “Uh-huh. So you can just—”
    “We have a message from Dr. Barnard.”
    That stopped her. “Don Barnard?”
    “Yes.”
    Dr. Donald Barnard had been her boss at the CDC. The only one who had stood with her when her world came crashing down.
    “Is Don all right? Why didn’t he just call? Or come down himself? What is—?”
    “Dr. Barnard’s presence was required in Washington. He is … very busy.”
    Fortier looked truly worried—whether about Barnard or something else, Hallie couldn’t tell.
    “So you came all this way to give me a message?”
    “Fifteen minutes, Dr. Leland. Please. But not here.”
    “I’m the blue Tundra outside. Follow me to my house.”
    “Nice place.”
    The first time Agent Whittle had spoken and his voice wavered. The oppressive, soggy, boiling heat. He had the fishy, white-lipped look people got before they fainted. Hallie saw it, but she was not feeling charitable.
If he can’t take the heat, screw him
.
    “Thanks,” she said. The rented house wasn’t really nice. Some shutters were missing, the faded blue paint was alligatoring, and the small screened porch listed. But inside it was neat and clean, with white-painted floors and walls, and smelled of fresh oranges. There was, however, no air-conditioning.
    “
Warm
down here,” Whittle said. He was a sizable man who appeared to be in good shape, but his voice sounded weak and thin. They were sitting in chairs at her chrome-and-Formica kitchen table, original equipment with the house.
    “You get used to it. No worse than D.C. in August.”
    “It’s February, though. How hot is it, exactly?”
    “About ninety in here. Ninety-eight outside. So, not too bad. High humidity today, though.”
    “Lord God.” Whittle loosened his blue-and-green tie, unbuttoned his collar. Mopped sweat from his face with a damp handkerchief. “I’m from North Dakota. It doesn’t get like this.”
    Hallie was afraid he might actually keel off the chair. If there was one thing she did not need this day, it was a heat-stroked Fed flopping around on her kitchen floor.
    “Hold on.” She took a fluted pitcher from the refrigerator and poured three tall glasses of cold, homemade lemonade. Condensation filmed the glasses in a second. She added sprigs of mint from her backyard herb garden and brought the glasses to the table. Hallie sipped hers, studying the agents. Whittle gulped half of his lemonade, then held the glass against his forehead.
    “
Thank
you.” There was serious gratitude in his voice.
    “About Don?”
    “Yes. Just a second.” Fortier put his briefcase on the table and begin working through its three combination locks.
    Agent Whittle took another long drink of lemonade, then looked at Hallie in an odd way. “Could I ask you a question, Dr. Leland? It’ll take Agent Fortier a minute here.”
    “Shoot.”
    “Well, I was wondering what happened to your friend back there.”
    “You mean Mary? The shop owner?”
    “Yes.”
    “She was an Apache pilot in Iraq. Patrolling her sector one day when she monitored a combat patrol screaming for air support. Insurgents had them surrounded. Command denied their request. The fighters were known to have Stingers and the brass probably figured soldiers were easier to replace than choppers. Mary went in anyway. She saved the team, but the bad guys brought her downwith a Stinger. Her copilot was killed. Mary survived the crash but … well, you saw. She should have gotten the Medal of Honor.”
    “What medal
did
she get?”
    “None. ‘Lieutenant Stilwell is dishonorably discharged for willful disobeyance of orders from a superior officer and wanton disregard for the safety of her copilot, her actions resulting in destruction of Army assets