some sharp object years earlier, which had healed badly with a ragged edge.
Gravas continued his examination, but found nothing else. Then he took hold of the right side of the body and gently turned it to allow him to examine the back. He followed exactly the same
procedure, and found precisely nothing. No wounds, no lesions, no signs at all of external damage.
He returned the body to its original position and gazed down at it. As far as he could tell, the blood on the chest appeared to have come from the Greek’s mouth, spewed out like crimson
vomit. And the blood encrusting the sheet on which the body lay had a most unusual source – it had been ejected from Aristides’s anus. And still Gravas didn’t know what had killed
him.
His forensic team was elsewhere in the house, combing it room by room, but so far he had let nobody else into the bedroom. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. Something he’d
read or heard somewhere, something that was relevant, that might explain what had killed this elderly man.
He shook his head slowly. It would come to him in time. It always did, sooner or later. The autopsy might clarify things, he hoped. Meanwhile, there was nothing more he could do with the body.
It was time to move it and then let his team begin their examination of the bedroom.
He skirted the bed and reached up for the handle of the latch window, intending to call down to Inspector Lavat, when he suddenly stopped, freezing into immobility. The realization had come
sooner rather than later, and suddenly he knew, or thought he knew, exactly how Aristides had died.
Gravas walked away from the window, giving the body on the bed as wide a berth as possible and stepped out onto the landing. He turned and pulled the door closed behind him and called out to his
forensic team.
‘This is Gravas. Listen, both of you, and stop whatever you are doing immediately. Put your equipment down and just leave it where it is. Ensure that your masks and gloves are securely in
place, then stand up and walk out of the house, touching nothing else. Do not even touch each other, and wait for me in the street outside.’
Two very puzzled men emerged rapidly from the spare bedroom and walked in single file down the narrow stairs. Gravas first checked that all the upstairs windows and doors were closed, then
followed them down. On the ground floor he checked too that all the windows were secured, then he himself walked out of the house, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
‘Dr Gravas?’ Lavat called to him as he watched this procession emerge.
‘Inspector,’ Gravas said, his voice slightly muffled by his mask, ‘don’t come near me or my team. Ensure that nobody else approaches the house. Set up a cordon around the
whole village. Nobody must be allowed in or out until we have this situation under control.’
‘Situation? What situation? This is a murder, clearly a brutal murder, but to cordon the whole village? Is that really necessary?’
Gravas almost smiled. ‘I wish it were that easy,’ he replied, ‘but I’m afraid this particular killer can slip through any cordon you are able to erect.’
Lavat looked startled. ‘You mean you know who killed Aristides?’
Gravas nodded. ‘It’s not a who, Inspector, it’s a what. If I’m right, what killed the Greek was a thing called Ebola.’
Chapter 5
Tuesday
Special Pathogens Branch, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, Georgia
Tyler Q. Hardin – the ‘Q’ wasn’t short for anything; his middle name really was ‘Q’, which Hardin presumed had been his father’s
idea of a joke – had actually got one foot in the shower stall when his pager went off. He snapped off the shower, which he’d just spent nearly five minutes getting to precisely the
right temperature, picked up the pager and looked at the display. It showed a single acronym: ‘L4HA’.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered, forgot all about his shower and climbed
Gravas continued his examination, but found nothing else. Then he took hold of the right side of the body and gently turned it to allow him to examine the back. He followed exactly the same
procedure, and found precisely nothing. No wounds, no lesions, no signs at all of external damage.
He returned the body to its original position and gazed down at it. As far as he could tell, the blood on the chest appeared to have come from the Greek’s mouth, spewed out like crimson
vomit. And the blood encrusting the sheet on which the body lay had a most unusual source – it had been ejected from Aristides’s anus. And still Gravas didn’t know what had killed
him.
His forensic team was elsewhere in the house, combing it room by room, but so far he had let nobody else into the bedroom. Something was niggling at the back of his mind. Something he’d
read or heard somewhere, something that was relevant, that might explain what had killed this elderly man.
He shook his head slowly. It would come to him in time. It always did, sooner or later. The autopsy might clarify things, he hoped. Meanwhile, there was nothing more he could do with the body.
It was time to move it and then let his team begin their examination of the bedroom.
He skirted the bed and reached up for the handle of the latch window, intending to call down to Inspector Lavat, when he suddenly stopped, freezing into immobility. The realization had come
sooner rather than later, and suddenly he knew, or thought he knew, exactly how Aristides had died.
Gravas walked away from the window, giving the body on the bed as wide a berth as possible and stepped out onto the landing. He turned and pulled the door closed behind him and called out to his
forensic team.
‘This is Gravas. Listen, both of you, and stop whatever you are doing immediately. Put your equipment down and just leave it where it is. Ensure that your masks and gloves are securely in
place, then stand up and walk out of the house, touching nothing else. Do not even touch each other, and wait for me in the street outside.’
Two very puzzled men emerged rapidly from the spare bedroom and walked in single file down the narrow stairs. Gravas first checked that all the upstairs windows and doors were closed, then
followed them down. On the ground floor he checked too that all the windows were secured, then he himself walked out of the house, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
‘Dr Gravas?’ Lavat called to him as he watched this procession emerge.
‘Inspector,’ Gravas said, his voice slightly muffled by his mask, ‘don’t come near me or my team. Ensure that nobody else approaches the house. Set up a cordon around the
whole village. Nobody must be allowed in or out until we have this situation under control.’
‘Situation? What situation? This is a murder, clearly a brutal murder, but to cordon the whole village? Is that really necessary?’
Gravas almost smiled. ‘I wish it were that easy,’ he replied, ‘but I’m afraid this particular killer can slip through any cordon you are able to erect.’
Lavat looked startled. ‘You mean you know who killed Aristides?’
Gravas nodded. ‘It’s not a who, Inspector, it’s a what. If I’m right, what killed the Greek was a thing called Ebola.’
Chapter 5
Tuesday
Special Pathogens Branch, Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, Atlanta, Georgia
Tyler Q. Hardin – the ‘Q’ wasn’t short for anything; his middle name really was ‘Q’, which Hardin presumed had been his father’s
idea of a joke – had actually got one foot in the shower stall when his pager went off. He snapped off the shower, which he’d just spent nearly five minutes getting to precisely the
right temperature, picked up the pager and looked at the display. It showed a single acronym: ‘L4HA’.
‘Oh, shit,’ he muttered, forgot all about his shower and climbed
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