The Deep Zone: A Novel (2 page)

Mr. Adelheid sipped, watched him. “I hope you will stay to dine with me.”

“I had planned on it.”

“Wonderful. Please, come and sit.”

They took places at a table set for four. Crystal and silver sparkled on white linen. He had never been good at small talk, but Mr. Adelheid was extraordinary, so after a while he felt as though he were in one of those foreign films where people speak endlessly across fabulous tables, every utterance freighted with wit and irony. They talked about Washington’s execrable weather, the visitor’s workload, AfPak, one subject flowing smoothly into the next. Mr. Adelheid made a story about hunting wild boar in Russia sound like an elegant fable.

A waiter appeared, removed his empty tumbler, replaced it with a full one.

“Shall we begin with some Strangford Lough oysters?” Mr. Adelheid smiled, then looked abashed. “I’m so sorry. You do like oysters, don’t you?”

The few raw oysters he had ever eaten had made him think of toilet bowls. “Absolutely,” he said.

The waiter set down silver plates with the slick, pink things in iridescent shells on crushed ice. Mr. Adelheid tipped one to his lips, slurped, savored. Steeling himself, the guest did the same. A taste like very dry champagne with a hint of salt wind. He smiled, agreeably startled.

“Incredible, no? I could eat them every day.” Mr. Adelheid lifted another. “This morning they were in the Irish Sea.”

They concentrated on the oysters. He had always known that certain people lived this way: palatial homes on estates that sprawled like counties, enormous yachts, exquisite women, the food and drink of royalty. Relishing ecstasies
every day
about which he could only fantasize.

He had never known how such lives were made. Now he might learn.

• • •

When he had finished eating the oysters, Mr. Adelheid pushed his plate aside, dabbed his lips.

“Let us speak now. You have a very important job at BARDA. The Biomedical Advanced Research and Development Authority, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Created in 2006 by President George W. Bush to counter biowarfare threats and responsible for, among other initiatives, Project BioShield.”

“Yes.”

“Fascinating work, I imagine. Would you care to tell me about it?”

He paused while the waiter set down new plates. Velvety, chocolate-colored filets in a scarlet sauce. “Medallions of Black Forest venison with Madeira and black truffles,” Mr. Adelheid said. Then wine, poured into crystal goblets from a bottle with a label like parchment. He had drunk wine, of course, even, on a few occasions, in very expensive restaurants. Now he understood that he had never tasted
great
wine.

How many other great things had evaded him in this life? He suddenly felt regret so intense it made his eyes glisten. Too quickly, he brought the wine glass to his mouth, spilling a few drops onto the immaculate tablecloth, embarrassing himself. His moist eyes, the soiled linen—he felt thick and stupid in the presence of this polished man.

“I do microbiology. MDRBs.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry. Multiple-drug-resistant bacteria.”

“Is it like in the movies? You know, exotic germs, that kind of thing?”

A little flare inside him. “Calling them germs is like calling diamonds rocks. They are miracles of evolution. And beautiful. Think of a spiral nebula on the head of a pin. Every color in the universe.”

“You speak of them as friends.”

“We get along well. I respect them. And admire their good qualities.”

“Which are?”

“Astonishing evolutionary speed, for one.”

“Do you work in space suits?”

“Sometimes. Those in BSL-4.”

“What does that mean, exactly, ‘BSL-4’?”

“Biosafety Level Four. The highest security level. Positive-pressure environments. Chemturion protective suits. Respirators. Disinfectant showers and ultraviolet germicidal lights. Double-door air locks. Unbreakable labware.”

Mr. Adelheid nodded, touched his right ear with the tips of two fingers. The door swung open and Erika walked in. Even moving, she seemed to be in repose. Everything about her was
… perfect
. Her legs, body, face, eyes—not one dissonant curve or angle.

“Good evening, Erika. Would you care for a drink? Some champagne, perhaps?”

“No thank you, sir.”

She sat, crossed her magnificent legs, and something caught in his chest.

“Erika, you have met our friend.” No name offered, none asked for.

“Enchantée.”

“Would you like to spend time with our friend?”

“I would love to.” A voice like chimes, exultant, as if it were the greatest opportunity life had offered.

He almost dropped his fork, fumbled, felt like a fool.

“Would you find that agreeable?” Mr. Adelheid smiled at him.

He hesitated, thoroughly unsure how to respond.

“We could have Christina come in. Or Gisele.”

“No, no.” He reddened. “No. I mean,
yes
, of course, I would find that agreeable.”

“And Erika, would you like to accommodate our friend’s wishes?”

“Oh, yes.” She placed her fingertips on the back of his hand, four small, cool circles on his hot skin. There was something about the way she moved, slowly, dreamily, as though underwater. “There is a villa in the Mediterranean, on an island all its own, with a waterfall in the bedroom. Floors of pink marble, walls of glass.” She flicked her eyes at Mr. Adelheid.

He smiled. “No rules we do not make, the only laws those of nature.”

His thoughts twirled, huge black eyes, white fog, shining oysters, golden whiskey, scarlet wine, a turquoise sea scattered with flakes of light. This woman’s scent, heavier now, gardenia sweet. He closed his eyes, breathed.

I could use some air
.

“Thank you, Erika.” She rose and turned to their guest.

“I hope to see you again.”

“And I … yes, me, too.”

He watched her leave, moving through space as though without weight.

“To the victors go the spoils.” Mr. Adelheid raised his glass again.

“God in heaven.” He drank, eyes closed.

“Would you like to learn more?”

“That’s why I came.”

Mr. Adelheid nodded. “Fine. But let us enjoy this good food first. We should never rush our pleasures.”

“Live our lives.”

“Indeed.” Mr. Adelheid did something in the air with his right hand, some ancient benediction, and picked up his knife. They ate in an island of light in the great shadowed room. With a silver knife he cut the venison and forked to his mouth pieces dripping with sauce. They ate and did not speak, the only sounds in the room those of their chewing and breathing and the insistent buzzing of one invisible fly.

THE LIGHT IN THE ROOM RIPPLED, CANDLE FLAMES DANCING
with currents of air. He ate, drank wine, so overwashed with pleasures he forgot for long moments who and where he was.

After a time, with half of his venison uneaten, Mr. Adelheid laid down his silver, dabbed his lips. His fingers were slim and very long, tendrils with shining tips.

To leave food like that
. His own plate had been clean for some minutes.

“Well. We would be very grateful for your help.”

“Leave BARDA and come to work for you?” He did not know who Mr. Adelheid worked for. But surely it would be made clear. Or would it?

“No. Not leave BARDA.”

“A mole, then.”
Crude
. He regretted it immediately, blushed.

The fly, buzzing again. An expression passed across Mr. Adelheid’s face, like clouds scudding over the moon. “An observer.”

“What would you want me to observe?”

“Most antibiotics today are derived from one original source, is that not true?”

“Yes. Actinomycetales. Discovered in 1940 by Selman Waksman. He got the Nobel for that work.”

“But germs are winning the battle. So I have heard.”

“Hundreds of thousands of people die every year from bacterial infections we can no longer treat. In the U.S. alone. Other places, the numbers are … appalling.”

“Hundreds of thousands of
reported
deaths. The true total is much higher, isn’t it?”

“Of course. Did renal failure or hospital-acquired infection kill Mr. Jones? One checkmark in a different box on a report. An easy choice for dirty hospitals. Which most are.”

“And your facility—BARDA—is trying to produce an entirely new family of antibiotics.”

“Among other projects. But yes, that is one main thrust of the work.”

Mr. Adelheid smoothed his ascot. How old was the man? The visitor could not say with any certainty. Forty or sixty. His skin was smooth, eyes bright, movements lithe. But there was something ancient about him, Sphinx-like, an inscrutable repose.

“Consider this. The new currency of power is
information
,” Mr. Adelheid said.

“Really?” The Laphroaig and the wine were making him bolder. “So given the choice between a ton of gold and a terabyte of information, you’d take the terabyte?”

“On the surface, an easy choice. A ton of gold today is worth $45 million. No paltry sum. But: what if you have golden
information
? Do you have any idea how much money has been made from Dr. Waksman’s antibiotics?”

“Billions, I would guess.”

“Trillions.”

“Don’t you have politicians who can help you?”

“Of course we have politicians. And others. But no one like you.”

“So what do you need, exactly?”

“Exactly? At this very moment? Nothing. But there will come a time. Very soon, we think.”

Keeping his eyes on the table, he said, “You want me to be a spy.”

Mr. Adelheid made a sound as if clearing something unpleasant from his throat. “Spies make death. Our wish is not to take lives but to save them.”

“For a profit.”

“Of
course
for a profit.” His tone suggested that any alternative would be irrational, like living without breathing. “What are millions of human lives worth?”

“Priceless.”

Mr. Adelheid regarded him in silence for a moment. “You know of Reinhold Messner? The great mountaineer?”

“I know he climbed Mount Everest solo.”

“And without oxygen. In Europe, a god. Messner said, ‘From such places you do not return unchanged.’ ”

“I don’t climb.”

“Mountains are not the only realms from which we may not return unchanged.”

Mr. Adelheid reached into his blazer, produced a slip of green paper the size of a playing card. He slid it to the middle of the table. A deposit ticket from Grand Cayman National Bank for
Fifty thousand and 00/100 dollars
, payable not to a name but to an eleven-digit alphanumeric sequence.

“An appreciation for the pleasure of your company this evening. You need only the PIN. Which I will give you.”

“For doing what?”

“For joining me tonight.”

“
Fifty thousand dollars
for a few hours?”

“Of course.”

It was dizzying, but another question had to be asked. “How much for doing the … observing you mentioned?”

Mr. Adelheid named a figure that made his heart jump. For a moment the room blurred and sang like a plucked string. He put his hand on the table, a few inches away from the green slip. Thoughts skittered in his head.

So this is how it feels
. He watched as his hand, possessed, slid toward the green paper.

“I urge you to think carefully.” Mr. Adelheid’s voice made a strange echo in the chamber. Or was it the whiskey and wine? “This threshold, like Messner’s realm, is one you cannot recross. Be certain.”

It came out, quick and harsh, as though he had been waiting most of his life to tell someone. “I have a doctorate from a good university. Nineteen years of government service. I make eighty-seven thousand, four hundred and seventy-six dollars a year. I have been passed over for promotion three times. I do not want to die having had only this life.”

Mr. Adelheid regarded him thoughtfully. “And there was that unfortunate business with your wife. Forgive me:
former
wife.”

So he knows. Of course. He would know everything
. He bit off each word: “Yes. The ‘unfortunate incident.’ ”

It had been nine years, but like a gangrenous wound, this one would never heal; in fact, like such a wound, it seemed to grow deeper and more foul as time passed. Even Mr. Adelheid’s veiled reference made his rage flare. And not just rage. A hot and breathless shame for the losses—and for being one who’d lost the great things.

Mr. Adelheid said, “It was unfortunate.
She
strayed. And yet—”

“—and yet her lawyers took
everything
. The house, our savings, the antiques … our
dogs
.”

“The Airedales, yes. And it goes on.”

“Oh, yes. On and
on
. Do you know, after she left me, I had to
move into a
condominium
”—he said the word as though it were an obscenity—“in one of those subdivisions with hundreds of them, all identical, lined up. It could be Bulgaria. Every morning I drive from there to BARDA, walk the same two hundred and nineteen steps to the laboratory, and at the end of each day I walk the other way. Week after month after year. That does something to a man.” He paused for breath, aware that he had not spoken to anyone like this for longer than he could remember.