"Except Ebola."

"You do listen. My staff should pay as much attention. But why bother with an Ebola weapon? We have anthrax. Trying to improve on anthrax is like trying to improve on gunpowder. Anthrax is easy to propagate, easy to handle, it diffuses nicely into the air, kills slowly enough for the infected population to spread it around, and cripples as many victims as it kills, causing a collapse of the enemy's health care system. But, officially, we don't have anthrax bombs or artillery shells. The point is, if the Gordons were trying to develop a biological weapon to sell to a foreign power, they wouldn't bother with Ebola. They were too smart for that. So put that suspicion to rest."

"I feel much better. By the way, when did the Gordons go to England?"

"Let's see… May of last year. I recall that I envied them going to England in May." He asked me, "Why do you ask?"

"Doc, do scientists know why they're asking questions all the time?"

"Not all the time."

"I assume the government paid all expenses for the Gordons' trip to England."

"Of course. It was all business." He thought a moment, then said, "Actually, they took a week in London at their own expense. Yes, I remember that."

I nodded. What I. didn't remember was any unusually large credit card bills in May or June of last year. I wondered where they'd spent the week. Not in a London hotel, unless they skipped out on the bill. I didn't recall any large cash withdrawals either. Something to think about.

The problem with asking really clever questions in front of Foster and Nash was that they heard the answers. And even if they didn't know where the questions were coming from, they were smart enough to know-contrary to what I indicated to Zollner-that most questions had a purpose.

We were walking down a very long corridor, and no one was speaking, then Dr. Zollner said, "Do you hear that?" He stopped dead and put his hand to his ear. "Do you hear that?"

We all stood motionless, listening. Finally, Foster asked, "What?"

"Rumbling. It's a rumbling. It's…"

Nash knelt down and put the palms of his hands on the floor. "Earthquake?"

"No," Zollner said, "it's my stomach. I'm hungry." He laughed and slapped his fat. "Lighten up," he said in his German accent, which made it sound even more funny. Everyone was smiling except Nash, who stood stiffly and brushed his hands off.

Zollner went to a door painted bright red, on which was plastered six standard OSHA-type signs, as follows: Biohazard, Radioactive, Chemical Waste, High Voltage, Poison Hazard, and finally, Untreated Human Waste. He opened the door and announced, "Lunch Room."

Inside the plain white cement block room were a dozen empty tables, a sink, a refrigerator, microwave oven, bulletin boards covered with notices and messages, and a water cooler and coffee maker, but no vending machines, the fact being that no one wanted to come in here and service them. Sitting on a counter was a fax machine, a menu of the day's fare, and paper and pencil. Dr. Zollner said, "Lunch is on me. He wrote himself a big order which I saw included the soup du jour, which was beef. I didn't even want to think about where the beef came from.

For the first time since I left the hospital, I ordered Jell-O, and for the first time in my life, I skipped the meat dishes.

No one else seemed particularly hungry, and they all ordered salads.

Dr. Zollner faxed the order and said, "The lunch hour here doesn't start until one, but they will deliver quickly because I requested it."

Dr. Zollner suggested we wash our hands, which we all did at the sink with some weird brown liquid soap that smelled like iodine.

We all got coffee and sat. A few other people came in and got coffee and took things out of the refrigerator or faxed orders. I looked at my watch to see the time and saw my wrist.

Zollner said, "If you'd brought your watch in, I'd have to decontaminate it and quarantine it for ten days."

"My watch wouldn't survive a decontamination." I glanced at the clock on the wall. It was five minutes to one p.m.

We made small talk for a few minutes. The door opened and a man in lab whites entered, pushing a stainless steel cart which looked like any other lunch cart, except it was covered with a sheet of plastic wrap.

Dr. Zollner pulled off the wrap and disposed of it, then-perfect host-gave us each our orders and dismissed the man and the cart.

Max asked, "That guy has to shower now?"

"Oh, yes. The cart is first put in a decon room and retrieved later."

I asked, "Is it possible to use that cart to smuggle large items out of here?"

Dr. Zollner was arranging his large lunch in front of him with the expertise of a real trencherman. He looked up from his labor of love and said, "Now that you mention it, yes. That cart is the only thing that makes a regular journey between administration and biocontainment. But if you used it to smuggle, you'd have to have two other people in on it. The person who pushes it in and out, then the person who washes it and takes it back to the kitchen. You're very clever, Mr. Corey."

"I think like a criminal."

He laughed and dug into the beef soup. Yuck.

I regarded Dr. Zollner as I slurped my lime Jell-O. I liked the guy. He was funny, friendly, hospitable, and smart. He was lying through his teeth, of course, but other people had forced him to do that. Probably the two jokers across the table, for starters, and God knew who else in Washington had briefed Dr. Z on the phone all morning while we were rambling around the ruins and getting brochures on rinderpest and blue balls or whatever. Dr. Z in turn had briefed Dr. Chen, who was a little too perfect. I mean, of all the people we could have questioned, Zollner led us to Dr. Chen, whose work seemed to be only peripherally related to the Gordons' work. And she was introduced as a good friend of the Gordons, but wasn't; I'd never heard her name mentioned before today. And then there were the other scientists to whom we'd spoken briefly, before Zollner whisked us off-they, too, had been on the same page as Chen.

There was a lot of smoke and mirrors in this place, and I'm sure there always had been. I said to Zollner, "I don't believe this story about the Ebola vaccine. I know what you're hiding and what you're covering up."

Dr. Zollner stopped in mid-chew, which was a chore for him. He stared at me.

I said, "It's the Roswell aliens, isn't it, Doc? The Gordons were about to blow the lid on the Roswell aliens."

The room was real quiet, and even some of the other scientists glanced at us. Finally, I smiled and said, "That's what this green Jell-O is-alien brains. I'm eating the evidence."

Everyone smiled and chuckled. Zollner laughed so hard he almost choked. Boy, I'm funny. Zollner and I could do a great routine; Corey and Zollner. That might be better than The Corey Files.

We all went back to our lunches and made chitchat. I glanced at my companions. George Foster had looked a little panicky when I said I didn't believe the Ebola vaccine thing, but he was fine now, eating alfalfa sprouts. Ted Nash had looked less panicky and more murderous. I mean, whatever was going on here, this was not the time or place to yell bullshit or liar. Beth and I made eye contact, and as usual I couldn't tell if she was amused by me or if she was annoyed. The way to a woman's heart is through her funny bone. Women like men who make them laugh. I think.?

I looked at Max, who seemed less phobic in this almost normal room. He seemed to enjoy his three-bean salad, which is not the thing that should be on a menu in an enclosed environment.

We picked at the chow, then the conversation got back to the possibly purloined vaccine. Dr. Z said, "Someone before mentioned that this vaccine would be worth its weight in gold, which made me recall something-a few of the vaccines that the Gordons were testing had a golden hue, and I recall the Gordons once referring to the vaccines as liquid gold. I thought that odd, perhaps, because we never speak in terms of money or profit here…"