At the far end of the hold lay a long, rectangular box, black, wooden, and heavy looking, like a grand cabinet laid out on its back. Unvarnished ebony, eight or so feet long by four feet wide by three high. Taller than a refrigerator. The top side was edged all around with intricate carving, labyrinthine flourishes accompanied by lettering in an ancient or perhaps made-to-look-ancient language. Many of the swirls resembled figures, flowing human figures-and perhaps, with a little imagination, faces screaming.
"No one's opened it yet?" asked Eph.
The HAZMAT officers all shook their heads. "We haven't touched the thing," one said.
Eph checked the back of it. Three orange restraining straps, their steel hooks still in the floor eyelets, lay on the floor next to the cabinet. "These straps?"
"Undone when we came in," said another.
Eph looked around the hold. "That's impossible," he said. "If this thing was left unrestrained during transit, it would have done major damage to the luggage containers, if not the interior walls of the cargo hold itself." He looked it over again. "Where's its tag? What does the cargo manifest say?"
One of the officers had a sheaf of laminated pages in his gloved hand, bound by a single ring clasp. "It's not here."
Eph went over to see for himself. "That can't be."
"The only irregular cargo listed here, other than three sets of golf clubs, is a kayak." The guy pointed to the side wall where, bound by the same type of orange ratchet straps, a plastic-wrapped kayak lay plastered with airline luggage stickers.
"Call Berlin," said Eph. "They must have a record. Somebody there remembers this thing. It must weigh four hundred pounds, easy."
"We did that already. No record. They're going to call in the baggage crew and question them one by one."
Eph turned back to the black cabinet. He ignored the grotesque carvings, bending to examine the sides, locating three hinges along either top edge. The lid was a door, split down the middle the long way, two half doors that opened out. Eph touched the carved lid with his gloved hand, then he reached under the lid, trying to open the heavy doors. "Anybody want to give me a hand?"
One officer stepped forward, wrapping his gloved fingers underneath the lip of the lid opposite Eph. Eph counted to three, and they opened both heavy doors at once.
The doors stood open on sturdy, broad-winged hinges. The odor that wafted out of the box was corpselike, as though the cabinet had been sealed for a hundred years. It looked empty, until one of the officers switched on a flashlight and played the beam inside.
Eph reached in, his fingers sinking into a rich, black loam. The soil was as welcoming and soft as cake mix and filled up the bottom two-thirds of the box.
Nora took a step back from the open cabinet. "It looks like a coffin," said Nora.
Eph withdrew his fingers, shaking off the excess, and turned to her, waiting for a smile that never came. "A little big for that, isn't it?"
"Why would someone ship a box of dirt?" she asked.
"They wouldn't," Eph said. "There had to be something inside."
"But how?" said Nora. "This plane is under total quarantine."
Eph shrugged. "How do we explain anything here? All I know for sure is, we have an unlocked, unstrapped container here without a bill of lading." He turned to the others. "We need to sample the soil. Dirt retains trace evidence well. Radiation, for example."
One of the officers said, "You think whatever agent was used to overcome the passengers...?"
"Was shipped over in here? That's the best theory I've heard all day."
Jim's voice called from below them, outside the plane. "Eph? Nora?"
Eph called back, "What is it, Jim?"
"I just got a call from the isolation ward at Jamaica Hospital. You're going to want to get over there right away."
Jamaica Hospital Medical Center
THE HOSPITAL FACILITY was just ten minutes north of JFK, along the Van Wyck Expressway. Jamaica was one of the four designated Centers for Bioterrorism Preparedness Planning in New York City. It was a full participant in the Syndromic Surveillance System, and Eph had run a Canary workshop there just a few months before. So he knew his way to the airborne infection isolation ward on the fifth floor.
The metal double doors featured a prominent blaze-orange, tripetaled biohazard symbol, indicating a real or potential threat to cellular materials or living organisms. Printed warnings read:
ISOLATION AREA:
CONTACT PRECAUTION MANDATORY,
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Eph displayed his CDC credentials at the desk, and the administrator recognized him from previous biocontainment drills. She walked him inside. "What is it?" he asked.
"I really don't mean to be melodramatic," she said, waving her hospital ID over the reader, opening the doors to the ward, "but you need to see it for yourself."
The interior walkway was narrow, this being the outer ring of the isolation ward, occupied mainly by the nurses' station. Eph followed the administrator behind blue curtains into a wide vestibule containing trays of contact supplies-gowns, goggles, gloves, booties, and respirators-and a large, rolling garbage barrel lined with a red biohazard trash bag. The respirator was an N95 half mask, efficiency rated to filter out 95 percent of particles 0.3 microns in size or larger. That meant it offered protection from most airborne viral and bacteriological pathogens, but not against chemical or gas contaminants.
After his full contact suiting at the airport, Eph felt positively exposed in a hospital mask, surgical cap, barrier goggles, gown, and shoe covers. The similarly attired administrator then pressed a plunger button, opening an interior set of doors, and Eph felt the vacuumlike pull upon entering, the result of the negative-pressure system, air flowing into the isolation area so that no particles could blow out.
Inside, a hallway ran left to right off the central supply station. The station consisted of a crash cart packed with drugs and ER supplies, a plastic-sheathed laptop and intercom system for communicating with the outside, and extra barrier supplies.
The patient area was a suite of eight small rooms. Eight total isolation rooms for a borough with a population of more than two and a quarter million. "Surge capacity" is the disaster preparedness term for a health care system's ability to rapidly expand beyond normal operating services, to satisfy public health demands in the event of a large-scale public health emergency. The number of hospital beds in New York State was about 60,000 and falling. The population of New York City alone was 8.1 million and rising. Canary was funded in the hopes of mending this statistical shortfall, as a sort of disaster preparedness stopgap. The CDC termed that political expedience "optimistic." Eph preferred the term "magical thinking."