Fatal Prescription. Don Pendleton

girls on some swings, their moms laughing as they pushed the children forward with light, exuberant exertions.

      “Do not take Pacifica if you have inflammatory bowel syndrome,” the announcer continued, speaking in a rapid, subdued monotone. “Certain studies have shown that adverse side effects may be noticed in certain individuals. These side effects may include vomiting, diarrhea, swelling of lymph glands... Tell your doctor if you experience shortness of breath or rapid heartbeat. In rare cases, cardiac arrhythmia, stroke and death may occur. Pacifica should not be used in combination with any non-recommended medications, and should not be taken in dosages exceeding prescribed limits. If any of these symptoms occur, notify your physician. In case of life-threatening reactions, consult immediate emergency room hospitalization.”

      Stevenson frowned and pressed the pause button on the remote.

      “What the hell?” he said, emphasizing the last word. “Inflammatory bowel syndrome, shortness of breath, arrhythmia, death... Christ. What are you trying to do? Kill the damn drug before it even gets approved by the damn FDA?”

      The standing man’s face jerked into a quick smile. “Well, sir, we are required by the FCC to verbally mention any potential hazards or risks.”

      Stevenson stood slowly, stretching himself to his full, six-foot-seven inches, and then threw the remote at him. The other man tried to duck, but it bounced off his face, breaking apart and ejecting two small AAA batteries. His knees buckled slightly and his face contorted into a wince, which he immediately tried to transform into a smile.

      “But, Mr. Stevenson, sir—”

      “Rod, get this weak asshole out of my sight,” Stevenson ordered, his voice laced with derision.

      Rodney Allen Nelson stood, waving his hand to usher the other man toward the door. Nelson’s face showed a placid, conciliatory expression. The younger man winced, then nodded, holding his cheek as he headed for the door. As it closed behind him, Stevenson picked up the glass and threw it at the LCD screen. The frozen image buckled and distorted slightly, and then went black as the glass shattered against it, leaving a trail of spilled liquid and broken shards.

      “Jesus Christ, Bill,” Nelson said. “That’s the third TV you’ve destroyed this week. You trying to break Elvis’s old record?”

      Stevenson’s face was still a mask of livid rage.

      “Don’t mess with me, Rod,” he said. “I’m not in the mood for assholes or jokes.”

      Just then they heard a light knock on the door. After a few seconds it opened and a startlingly attractive woman stepped inside. She had strawberry blond hair, and her blue dress clung to an obviously enhanced body.

      “Excuse me, Mr. Stevenson,” she said.

      Stevenson glanced at her, his eyes sweeping over her breasts. “What?”

      “It’s Mr. Quarry, sir,” she said, hesitating slightly before adding, “He’s on Skype.”

      “Skype?” Stevenson looked at the shattered television screen and swore. The woman looked perplexed.

      Nelson stepped forward, his hand held in the same conciliatory pose as before. “Jenna, have the call rerouted to the situation room.”

      The woman nodded and slipped out the door.

      Nelson turned back to Stevenson with a wry grin.

      “I hope it’s not bad news,” he said. “I was looking forward to watching some live news streams later on that TV.”

      Stevenson snorted a laugh and they headed for the door. “Come on,” he said. “I want to hear what he has to say, and it better be good. What the hell time is it over there, anyway?”

      Nelson glanced at his watch. “Around half-past midnight.”

      * * *

      STEVENSON WATCHED AS Jenna Callahan adjusted the large screen toward the conference table and fingered the PTZ lens along the top border. She pressed some buttons on a remote and then handed it to Rodney Nelson. Callahan turned and smiled at Stevenson as the television screen illuminated and the pigments brightened. An image of a man appeared. The broad, flat plains of his face and shaved head looked about 120 times their normal size. The background behind the face showed only darkness.

      “Thank you, Jenna,” Nelson said. “That’ll be all.”

      Callahan smiled at both men, turned and walked out of the office, closing the door behind her.

      Stevenson’s eyes, fixed on her buttocks as she walked, now turned to the large screen. “This better be good news, Quarry,” he said, his voice low and guttural.

      The face on the screen was distorted momentarily by a series of lines, then came back. “There’s been a slight development, sir.”

      “‘Development’?” Stevenson repeated. “What the hell does that mean?” He and Nelson exchanged a glance.

      “Everything’s going according to the professor’s estimates,” Quarry said. “But...”

      Stevenson’s brow furrowed. “But what, damn it?”

      Quarry’s image froze again, distorted by a series of horizontal, colored lines. When he came back, part of the transmission was indistinct. “—infected. He was taken from the village and transported to a hospital in Luanda.”

      “What? Who? You faded out.”

      “An American aide,” Quarry said. “He and his crew were in the bush giving some kind of inoculations. Measles, I think. We didn’t anticipate that he’d hear about the outbreak and come to check it out.”

      Stevenson gritted his teeth. “Damn.” He looked to Nelson, who sidled over to get into the camera range.

      “All right, Shadrock,” Nelson said. “We’re having a little trouble receiving you.”

      “Are you sure this is totally encrypted?” Stevenson asked.

      Nelson looked at him, smiled and nodded. He then turned back to the screen where Quarry’s large face loomed. “Where’s Dr. Debussey?”

      “Outside the tent,” Quarry said. His big hand appeared and he jerked his thumb behind him. “I wanted to check with you first. Want me to bring him in?”

      Nelson looked to Stevenson, who nodded.

      On the huge screen, Quarry stood and walked toward the darkened area behind him. He flipped up a canvass flap and said something. After a few seconds a pear-shaped, professorial type, in similar dark, jungle fatigues that Quarry was wearing, stepped through the opening and waddled toward the camera.

      He sat and looked around nervously. Quarry’s massive upper body leaned forward, dwarfing the other man as he gave him an earpiece.

      “Just talk into there, Doctor,” Quarry said. “You can see him in the monitor.”

      “Arnold?” Stevenson said. “Can you hear me?”

      The scientist nodded. His chin sagged and he looked exhausted.

      “Give me a status report,” Stevenson said.

      Debussey took a deep breath. “The mist dispersion system and the accelerated incubation rate seem to have functioned exactly as we estimated they would. Twelve hours from exposure to onset. The antidote inoculation for the team has also proved effective in that none of us has been infected, despite initial exposure. I need to start the antiviral inoculations for the villagers.”

      Stevenson nodded. “What about this other bullshit? This aide?”

      Debussey’s face wobbled up and down like a bobblehead doll’s. “That was unfortunate. They were on a humanitarian service trip. He was an unexpected intrusion to the test, and was taken away before I could examine him.”

      “Who took him?” Stevenson asked.

      “The