Page 72 of The Presidents Shadow

TWO STORIES HAVE taken over the headlines in all news media.

First, of course, is the scourge of the Newbola virus. What was once only an unverifiable prediction is now exhaustively reported: the hideous illness has worked its way across the entire world. No country has gone untouched. No city is free of plague.

Grandma Jessica shares that in our absence she received a package from Dr. DaSilva that contains a trial vaccination for Newbola.

The good doctor sent along a note saying that there were no guarantees it would be effective, but it was the best chance she could offer us, as soldiers on the front lines against the spreading illness.

Second, I am sorry to say, is this: When the media reports on the spread of the virus, they invariably mention my team and me and continue to spread the enormous lie that we are leaders of a conspiracy to destroy the world.

Communication networks like TMZ and Fox News can’t get enough. Priests and preachers sermonize about the devils among us. The ERs of almost every hospital on earth are packed with patients who are fearful that their colds and flus are early forms of the illness.

The Americas seem to have benefited the most from the travel ban.

Though cases of Newbola are being reported everywhere, there has been no severe outbreak as of twenty-four hours after our arrival home.

Essential workers such as those in health care and food services are allowed to return to work.

The rest of us are being asked to shelter in place…

but we’re not necessarily being told to.

Meanwhile, my team and I, as well as Margo and Grandma Jessica, spend an enormous amount of time discussing the situation.

Hawkeye barely managed to get out of Johannesburg before the air travel shutdown and had to make his way to us surreptitiously, hoping not to be recognized as a member of one of the most hated groups of people on earth at the moment.

He’s tired and let down after discovering nothing new in South Africa, but he’s the first to ask something critical.

What Hawkeye asks is the biggest question: what’s our next move?

Most importantly, we need to clear our reputations, which will not be an easy job with so many in the media relentlessly undermining us.

But if we’re attacked by an angry mob every time we leave the house, there is very little we can do to help contain the virus.

Burbank and Tapper agree that if we can find a way to connect the virus to the natural disasters, it will help lead us to whoever Hephaestus is—and hopefully move the wrath of the entire world off our shoulders and onto his.

There is another problem, this one personal, totally unrelated to the Newbola chaos. That has to do with Maddy.

Where the hell is she?

She hasn’t been sleeping at home. Yes, she’s texted and we’ve spoken to her. While I can’t detect any hint of lies in her answers— No, I’m not with a guy. Anyway, I’m a Dache-trained adult —I’m not buying what she’s selling.

Now we all sit in our tech room, each with our own worries.

Burbank, Tapper, and Hawkeye are entirely focused on somehow tying the virus to the natural disasters, while Margo, Jessica, and I try to focus on the same thing, while not letting worries over Maddy distract us.

We are making no real progress when, all of a sudden, a communication emergency alert buzzes.

The largest of the four screens in our conference room lights up.

A name appears.

Dr. Anna DaSilva

This is followed by a notification labeled communication priority. A few seconds later the word URGENT flashes on the screen, followed by a close-up video of our friend and colleague Dr. DaSilva—who does not look particularly happy. In fact, she looks as stern and angry as I’ve ever seen her.

“Lamont, we need to talk,” she says.

It takes me a few seconds to adjust to the coldness of her greeting. Apparently, I’m wasting time. She repeats, “Lamont, I said that we need to talk. That means I need you to respond.”

All I say is, “Yes, of course.”

Then Dr. DaSilva begins. Intense. Irritated.

“I am astonished, not to mention furious, that you are involved in this immoral, disgusting attempt to spread the Newbola virus,” she begins.

“Hold on, Dr. DaSilva. You are as ill-informed as—” I interrupt. But she talks over me, speaking harshly.

“I do not know how you could have seen the devastation of the virus here in Australia and purposely chosen to smuggle it out of the country. Maybe you thought you could study it, maybe you thought you could beat me at finding a vaccination and become an even more heroic figure. Whatever you had in mind, it’s completely backfired, hasn’t it? ”

I try to interrupt again, but the good doctor cannot be stopped. She rants on. Meanwhile, my personal device lights up with an email from Jericho, reporting in from North Carolina.

“I plan on discussing this extraordinary matter with President Townsend. I’m scheduled to speak with him in the next hour. I know your relationship with the president is shaky at best. It’s about to get worse.”

I am usually a reasonable and courteous teammate. But not now. Now it’s my turn to explode.

“Just stop it, Anna! Just stop! Townsend is the last person you should trust and confide in. If you do, then you’re a bigger fool than everyone who has fallen for this media lie, hook, line, and sinker.”

She strikes back. Her delivery is emotional, angry.

“I have devoted my life to improving the health of people everywhere,” she says. “I, sir, am no fool.”

Now it’s time to play my ace. I speak calmly and seriously.

“Prove it,” I challenge her. “Show me that you’re not part of the misled mob once I share with you the new intelligence I’ve received from the team member who just spoke to me from North Carolina.”

A slightly calmer but still slightly suspicious Dr. DaSilva asks, “Who’s that?”

“Jericho,” I say. “He’s shared with me some very alarming—but very helpful—information that he picked up in North Carolina.”

“Tell me everything,” she says. Then she adds, “Please.”

“Yes, I’ll tell you everything, Anna. But first, I’m going to tell the people who trust me. People whose names have been dragged through the mud along with mine. People whom I’m sure you yourself have smeared.”

“But I want—”

“I don’t care what you want,” I say, and cut the feed.