The Cobra Event by Richard Preston Read Free Book Online Page B

inspectors could see ultramodern, gleaming stainless-steel biological production equipment.
    A woman came scurrying out of the door, wearing a white lab coat. She was accompanied by several men. “What is this?” she demanded sharply. Under her lab coat she had on an expensive-looking dress. She wore cat-eye designer glasses, and her wavy brown hair was tied back in a loose roll.
    “United Nations weapons-inspection team, ma’am,” Will Hopkins said.
    “We’re on a snap inspection,” Littleberry added. “Who are you?”
    “I am Dr. Mariana Vestof. I am the consulting engineer. This is the
manager-générale
, Dr. Hamaq.”
    Dr. Hamaq was a short, stubby man who apparently spoke no English. His eyes moved searchingly across their faces, but he said not a word.
    She protested: “We have already been inspected here.”
    “We’re just doing a quick follow-up,” Littleberry said. “What are you making here, currently?”
    “These are virus vaccines,” she said, waving her arm.
    “Oh, good, okay. What kind, exactly?”
    The Kid said, “I will check.”
    “Does Dr. Vestof know?”
    “Our work is medical!” she said.
    “
Let’s go
,” Littleberry said. He reached into the car and grabbed one of the black metal suitcases and took off running for the building. The minders parted to let him by. Everyone seemed thoroughly confused.
    “Mark! What about our biohazard suits?” Hopkins called after him.
    “Never mind the goddamned space suits!” Littleberry yelled back. “Come on, move it, Will! On the Q.T.!” Littleberry wanted to get what he was after before the minders went berserk and shot someone.
    Hopkins grabbed his suitcase and the shortwave radio and ran after Littleberry, a motorized Nikon camera slopping around his neck, a face mask dangling by a hook on his belt. A crowd of people followed them into the stainless-steel jungle. There was no smell in the air.
    The building, which was windowless, was lit with fluorescent lights. The floor was a kind of pebbled terrazzo. All around them were stainless-steel tanks and tangles of pipes and hoses. The tanks were bioreactors, and they were on wheels. Workers reached them by standing on movable catwalks. The equipment in the Iraqi plant was portable. The entire plant could be moved.
    Dozens of workers were tending the equipment. They were wearing surgical masks and white coats and latex rubber gloves, but no other safety equipment. When they saw the inspectors, they drew back and stood around in groups, staring.
    Littleberry hurried toward one of the larger bioreactors. He snapped on a pair of rubber surgical gloves. Hopkins also put on a pair of rubber gloves.
    “Has this equipment been tagged?” Littleberry said. He addressed his question to Dr. Vestof.
    “Yes. Of course!” She showed him the big U.N. tags with identifying information on them. U NSCOM was attempting to put tags on all pieces of biological-production equipment in Iraq, so that the equipment could be traced, its movements and locations known.
    Littleberry studied a tag. “Interesting,” he said. There was a warmth coming out of the tanks, a warmth of body heat. “Nice equipment you have here,” he said to Dr. Vestof.
    She stood very primly, her feet close together, her hair neatly arranged. Her calm was in marked contrast to the agitation of the Iraqi minders.
    “We’ll just take a couple of samples and we’ll be out of here,” Littleberry said. He opened a plastic box and pulled out a wooden stick about four inches long with an absorbent pad on the end, like an oversized Q-Tip. It was a swab stick. He popped open the flip-top lid of a plastic test tube that was half-filled with sterile water. He dunked the soft tip of the swab stick in the tube to wet it, and then rubbed the tip—scrubbed it hard—on a valve on one of the warm bioreactors, trying to pick up dirt. Then he jammed the swab back into the test tube, snapped off the wooden stick, and closed the flip-top lid. He