Page 63 of The Presidents Shadow

MARGO AND I, along with Burbank and Tapper, are back in the living room of our hotel suite in Copenhagen.

All four of us have that awful feeling of being both anxious and bored at the same time.

Burbank and Tapper are having a sandwich-eating contest that Tapper is losing, due to a dislike of herring and a mix-up with room service.

Trapped and unable to work, we distract ourselves by theorizing if any of us might be carriers of the Newbola virus.

Eventually our minds are at ease. We wore biohazard suits in Australia, and there was no one ill in Kyoto.

Still not satisfied that we aren’t vectors for disease, Margo devises a simple but precise blood-droplet test that uses sodium azide to detect the presence of viruses.

We have all been tested three times since we left the airport, and are all absolutely free of Newbola. Still, I don’t want to take chances.

“Don’t get angry, Margo,” I say, “but is it at all possible that your homemade test is not accurate?”

“Blueberry muffins are homemade!” Margo snaps. “Moonshine is homemade! This is a simple laboratory procedure, using ingredients that I carry in my biomedical travel case. If you think—”

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, quickly putting my hands up in surrender. “I’m not questioning your capability.”

“Neither am I,” Tapper says, glancing up. “But does your bag happen to have the ingredients for moonshine? Because if so—”

“Stuff it, Tapper,” Margo says.

Then she looks at me calmly, all her anger vented. “I’m sorry, too,” she says. “Doing nothing is so frustrating and infuriating.”

Our laptops and phones have been silent since the worldwide quarantine began. So when my handheld device signals a communication, we all perk up.

I read aloud a string of messages from Dr. Anna DaSilva.

Aware of worldwide delay

Crisis here exploding

Stay safe not your fault

The moment I finish reading the text from Dr. DaSilva, Tapper flings one of his sandwiches violently to the floor. Then he jumps up and speaks very loudly.

“I can’t stand this. We worked our butts off. We traveled a million miles. The goddamn world is falling apart. And we’re sitting here in an expensive hotel room eating fish sandwiches. We’re doing nothing!”

I nod. “We all feel this way,” I say.

“So?” asks Burbank.

“So, I’m going to do something. We’re going to get out of here and get to work. We’re going to get back to the Americas.”

“I’m sure you can get there by swimming the Atlantic Ocean, Lamont, but what about the rest of us?” asks Tapper.

“We are all going. You’ll see,” I say.

“Great,” says Margo, watching me closely. “Now answer Tapper’s question. How?”

“Don’t worry,” I answer.

“What’s the plan?” asks Tapper.

“Well…” I say. Then I pause, and the pause is alarmingly long.

Shit. I’ve got to come up with a plan.