1 DECEMBER
Every newspaper and magazine published in New York that day contained a full-page advert:
The Two-Week Wonder!
Every BurgerFantastic Just 99 cents
BurgerFantastic – Home cooking without the hassle
Every billboard and electronic display that Dynamic Communications could beg, steal or borrow contained the same message. A new radio advert was quickly put together and pumped out twenty-four seven on New York’s twenty-seven local stations. With the leftover budget, Dynamic decided to re-run the adverts with Ricky Morgan, which had worked so well last year.
The manager of McDonald’s on Wall Street shook his head as he read the advert while travelling to work on the subway underneath Manhattan. Doesn’t look like McDonald’s will be selling too many burgers for the next coupla weeks. At this rate, BurgerFantastic are gonna beat our record of twenty thousand burgers sold from one outlet, in a day.
*
Takar el Sayden drove towards the BurgerFantastic production facility at Newark. Things were changing, all right. Mr Ali had come to see him the previous day. He’d promised him that the ‘experiment’ was nearly over. He’d given him a fresh set of photographs of his smiling daughters, standing in line for the latest kids’ film. Was it his imagination or did the powder look slightly different this time?
By early lunchtime that day, every one of the two hundred and fifty-two BurgerFantastic restaurants in New York had a line of up to fifty people, waiting for a table or a takeaway. ‘Boss, we need more staff, it’s crazy,’ shrieked one of his managers into Takar el Sayden’s cell phone.
‘Just keep going, see what you can do,’ he replied. Same advice he gave to almost every manager that day.
*
MANHATTAN – 8 DECEMBER – 6 P.M.
‘Peter?’ Sandra was calling him, almost as soon as he got the front door closed. ‘Peter?’
Dr Peter Phillips leaned his golf bag against the wall under the stairs and followed his wife’s voice into the kitchen.
‘Hi, honey,’ she said. ‘Good game?’ She was smiling warmly and that made him glad. Sandra had seemed happier recently and things had been going much better between them. Quite why, he didn’t know, but it sure felt good.
‘Yeah, great, thanks, won it on the seventeenth with a birdie. You woulda been proud of me! Well?’ he said, pecking her on the cheek.
‘Sorry to bring you back to basics, Tiger, but the clinic said Mr Walton’s been on. Says his wife is very sick and can you go round.’
‘Aw, shit!’
‘And I’ve had to put Suzy to bed, she’s got diarrhoea. And now Jonathan’s getting cramps. Will you go up and have a look at Suzy?’ asked Sandra.
‘Sure, on my way.’ He tapped lightly on his daughter’s door.
‘Come in, Dad,’ she said. She managed as big a smile for him as possible. She was propped up in bed, listlessly watching a movie on her laptop.
‘Hey, princess,’ he said, kissing her forehead. ‘What’s going on, honey?’
‘I’ve got these real bad, like, stomach cramps, Dad. And diarrhoea. Worst I’ve ever had.’
‘Oh dear, my little princess.’
‘But Mom says the worst is over, Dad. I just need to drink lots of water.’
‘Good old Mom – she’s right there.’ He put his hand on her forehead. ‘Okay, honey, you don’t seem too hot. I’ve got to go out and see a patient. I’ll come up and see you again in an hour or so.’
‘Okay, Dad. Love you.’ Suzy smiled weakly.
He grabbed his briefcase and reached Mrs Walton’s apartment about fifteen minutes later. Her worried husband opened the door. ‘Boy, am I glad to see you, doc, she’s not good.’
Mrs Walton was flat on her back in bed, a packet of SuperVerve on the locker.
‘She started with real bad diarrhoea, doctor, a couple of days ago,’ Mr Walton gabbled. ‘Then she started running a temperature. She’s been vomiting as well, most of today, and shivering.’
Dr Phillips carefully examined Mrs Walton’s abdomen, which was very tender, and took her blood pressure. Ninety over fifty. Shit, that’s toxic. Temperature a hundred and three degrees. Is that a rash?
‘Mr Walton, did she eat anything unusual recently? Shellfish? Pâté? A barbeque?’
‘No, no, just her usual routine.’
‘Has anyone that she’s been with fallen sick as well?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘I think she’s got food poisoning. It may have become septicaemia. We need to get her onto IV fluids and an intravenous antibiotic. She’s not going to keep tablets down. I’m going to send her to the hospital by ambulance. She’ll be back to normal in a couple of days.’
‘Jeez. Okay, doctor, thank you.’
Three minutes later an ambulance was on its way from the Patrick J. Brock Memorial Hospital. But Peter Phillips returned home to find that Suzy had deteriorated and his wife was feeling so weak that she was lying on their bed.
‘Jonathan’s downstairs, will you check on him?’
He found Jonathan lying listlessly on a beanbag in the den, beside his toy drum kit.
‘Hey, Dad. I was practising my drums, cos Suzy’s gonna let me be in her band, when she gets to be like Adele. But then I felt too sick.’
Peter Phillips stroked his son’s brow, noticing that his soft brown curls were damp with sweat. ‘Hey, that’s okay, soldier,’ he said and he kissed his son on the back of his neck. He gently scooped his little boy up in his arms. ‘Now, let’s get you up to bed.’
*
9 DECEMBER – 8.30 A.M.
‘It’s Sandra for you on line two.’ Dr Peter Phillips had just sat down at his desk when the call came through.
‘Peter, they’re both much worse. Suzy’s vomiting and there’s blood in her diarrhoea. And Jonathan’s doubled up crying.’
‘Okay, honey, try and keep calm,’ he said; the distress was clear in her voice.
‘Will I give them something to stop the diarrhoea?’
‘No, that could make it worse. I think they’ve caught some bug and it’s got to go through their system.’
‘It’s not that, Peter. There’s something going on.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I rang Jonathan’s daycare to say he wouldn’t be coming in.’
‘And . . .?’
‘They said that over half of the kids are out sick.’
‘Uh, oh.’
‘Yeah, and it’s the same at Suzy’s school. The principal told me that every time he puts the phone down it rings again. And every call is another parent saying their kid is sick.’
‘There’s just some bug going around that’s hitting the kids.’
‘Maybe, but I’m not feeling so good myself. Hey, I’d better go, Suzy’s calling.’
‘Okay. I’ll get back home as quickly as I can, but the waiting room’s packed.’
One hour later, Dr Phillips had seen five patients in a row, all with diarrhoea and bad stomach cramps. What the fuck’s going on? he wondered as he leaned back in his chair. Then he had an idea.
‘Patrick J. Brock Memorial Hospital,’ answered the receptionist.
‘Can you page Dr Conrad Jones for me, please.’
‘Certainly, caller, one moment.’
He held for about thirty seconds and then he heard the familiar voice.
‘Hey, Conrad, it’s Peter Phillips here.’
‘Hey, Peter, how’s that old swing?’
‘Just about gets me round.’ The doctors were both members of the same golf club, but Peter didn’t want to chat about golf.
‘I’m a little concerned here, Conrad. I’ve got a clinic full of patients with severe diarrhoea. My kids have it, too, and apparently half of their schools are out sick too. Are you seeing anything strange at the hospital?’
‘I’ve just finished rounds, Peter, and I haven’t heard anything new. Hang on and I’ll try Valerie Mahler at the ER.’ Within a minute he was back on the line.
‘Peter, looks like you’re on to something. Valerie says it’s like a war zone down there. A lot of patients being referred in by doctors – mostly with severe cramps, bloody stools, vomiting and dehydration.’
‘Jeez, any idea what’s going on?’
‘No, but they’ve started alerting the public health authorities.’
‘Wow – it must be some real bad bug or virus.’
‘Yeah, I’m sure we can get it sorted, but they’re starting to run outta beds.’
‘Gotta go, Conrad, talk to ya later, buddy.’
‘No problem, man. And keep that left arm straight.’
*
That evening, Detectives Cabrini and Wyse were heading south on Fifth Avenue, passing the Guggenheim Museum, when Wyse abruptly interrupted Cabrini’s views on Beyoncé vs. Rihanna.
Wyse put his hand up. ‘Sssh. Mike, listen.’ He turned up the volume on the police radio.
‘What did you say he was dropping, twenty-two?’
‘Up in Harlem. Coupla boxes fell outta a white van. We opened ’em up. They’re some kinda tablets called SuperVerve. Looks suspicious to me. He’s maybe ten blocks ahead of us on Fifth. Southbound. Traffic’s real slow here, though.’
‘You get a tag?’
‘Nope. White Toyota van.’
‘Okay. All cars. Anyone near Fifth and 70. Eyes out for a white Toyota van. Southbound. Suspicious activity. Stop and search.’
‘That’s more of those SuperVerve tablets, Mike. Let’s get this guy and see what he’s up to. Hold the siren. Let’s see if we can tail him.’
‘You got it.’ Cabrini dropped into second gear and pulled out to overtake a bus as they passed the Apple store. Then, as they passed Trump Tower, Wyse exclaimed.
‘That could be him. About three blocks. Going pretty quick.’
Cabrini increased speed, closed the distance on the van and broke a red on 54th, provoking a salvo of horns. A block ahead, Ibrahim Fallah’s heart skipped a couple of beats as he noticed the Crown Victoria in his rear-view mirror.
Cops. Fuck. Will I let them stop me and try and talk my way out of it? Instinct kicked in. As he sped past St Patrick’s Cathedral, the lights ahead at the junction with East 50th turned red. Nearly back at base. If I can just stay far enough ahead of them. As the traffic started crossing from both sides, he floored the accelerator and shot through the junction. Eighty yards back, Cabrini weighed up his options. There was a gap opening up on the right . . .
Wyse roared, ‘Watch it, Mike!’
At the last second, Cabrini spotted a stroller emerging from behind a truck, being pushed over the crossing. He stood on the brakes, pulled the steering wheel left and the car went into a long broadside slide, tyres howling in protest. The woman turned to face the noise and screamed a torrent of angry Spanish as the Crown Victoria shuddered to a halt, six feet from her and her baby.
‘Fuck me,’ exhaled Cabrini.
Beside him, Wyse had pulled the door handle off the inside of the door, as he gripped it through the skid. ‘Fuck me is right, Mike,’ he said, showing Cabrini the handle clenched in his hand. ‘Good stop.’
‘Bit too close for comfort,’ said Cabrini, wiping sweat from his forehead. ‘But we lost the van.’
‘Don’t worry. We’ll get him soon enough. God knows what that guy’s doing.’
*
Perfect. Ibrahim Fallah saw the junction snarl up behind him and took a quick right into West 48th Street and then an immediate left into Avenue of the Americas. Then he ducked left into East 42nd and ninety seconds after leaving Wyse and Cabrini trapped in his wake, he was driving under the electronic door into the garage at the rear of the Metropolitan Library. He sat quietly in the van for a few minutes after the door had closed behind him.
Phew. That was close. Why are the cops following me? Did someone spot me dumping the tablets? And that old Crown Victoria looks like the one that Detective Wyse drives. The sooner I kill him the better. Tomorrow night should be perfect.