Autopsy(Kay Scarpetta #25)(49)

Had it not been for Benton’s high-fat hangover breakfast of cheesy eggs, buttered toast and sugary espresso, I might not have shown up at all. Or everyone involved would wish I hadn’t, as bleary and edgy as I was feeling, my memory spotty, and I wouldn’t say I’m as good as new. But I’ll manage.

“They’re just getting started.” The secretary couldn’t be more gracious, and it must be nice working with someone like her. “Everybody’s waiting for you.” Maybe it’s just my imagination but she looks at me as if somehow knowing what I’ve been through, and that I’m not quite up to speed.

Unfortunately, there’s no coffee or tea, nothing but water where we’re going, she tells me as if feeling my pain. Taking off our coats, we hang them on a coatrack that hasn’t room to spare. There’s no telling who’s behind shut doors engaged in conversations impacting the welfare of all humanity, and Elvin Reddy seeps back into my thoughts.

Whatever he has up his sleeve, I’m sure I won’t be happy about it, and I can’t waste my energy on him now as Tron leads us along another hallway. She stops at another door with another red light glowing, and we enter a big room I’ve not been in before. But I’ve seen it plenty enough in photographs, and there must be twenty people seated in black leather chairs wherever they’ll fit.

The president of the United States is at the head of a long conference table cluttered with paperwork and bottled water. Suit jacket off, he has his shirtsleeves rolled up, flipping through pages, making copious notes. The vice president is on his right, the secretary of state on his left, the room heated up by tension and closely packed bodies.

Multiple video feeds playing on the data walls show clear images of an unusual satellite circling the Earth. A Soyuz rocket launches from the Russian’s Baikonur Cosmodrome, their spaceport in Central Asia, and the time stamp is mid-September. Then a few hours ago, a gumdrop-shaped crew capsule floated down beneath a candy-cane-striped parachute, landing in a tall plume of dust in the desert of Kazakhstan.

The images surrounding the Situation Room are dazzling and distracting like a mini Times Square, and I’m getting a hint what this is about at least in part. It would seem there’s been a catastrophe in outer space. I can’t tell what yet. But I can make an educated guess that it has to do with human health and safety. Otherwise, I don’t know what I might add to the mix.

Tron directs Benton and me to the only empty chairs, side by side on the vice president’s left. In her simple dark blue pants suit and ankle boots, she’s not dressed all that different from the way I am.

“I’m sorry to make you wait.” I feel compelled to apologize again.

“We’re just getting started,” she says quietly, smiling at us. “Everybody’s scrambling the same way you are. We’re very glad to see you. I’m aware you had a rough night that thank goodness turned out all right,” she adds to my surprise.

She’s aware of the poisoned wine I carried home from Interpol. But it’s not what this meeting is about, and she says nothing more.

“Whatever I can do to help.” I smile back at her, not feeling particularly confident.

“Doctor Scarpetta, Benton, thanks for coming on such short notice,” the president begins, and I haven’t met everyone in the room.

But I’m acquainted with most or at least know who I’m looking at, and surrounding me are a host of potentates including the Secretary of Defense, the administrator of NASA, directors of the Secret Service, Homeland Security, the CIA, and the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA). I recognize senators from Virginia, Florida, New Mexico, California, Massachusetts and Texas.

Across the table from me is the Commander of Space Force, Jake Gunner, whom I’ve worked with on occasion at the Pentagon. In his dress blues tunic jacket and Star Trek–ish Nehru collar, the four-star general brings to mind a sage Captain Kirk with wire-rim glasses and a gray buzz cut.

Our eyes meet, and he nods, his grim preoccupations obvious. Then he returns his attention to a pile of folders. I recognize from their rainbow of colorful markings that they’re classified, the high-ranking officer next to him pointing out something in one of the documents.

“I’m sorry you couldn’t be filled in before walking through the door,” the vice president says to me. “Scarcely anybody sitting around this table has been briefed in advance because it’s crucial that nothing gets out about what’s happening in space right now.”

“Not until we know the facts.” General Gunner directs this at me and not Benton, the same way the vice president did. “Thanks for coming, Doctor Scarpetta. The way things are looking, I’m afraid it’s going to require your help to figure out what we’re dealing with. And no offense intended, but that’s not a good sign.”

“People usually don’t need my help when the news is good,” I agree.

“We need to get to the bottom of things quickly if we’re to control the message before a pack of lies gets spread,” the president adds, and if I doubted it before, I don’t anymore.

Benton knows everything. His major role in this unfolding drama is making sure I’m sitting here. Of course, I understand. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel handled and disadvantaged. There’s only so much I can do if I’m not given data in advance and have no ability to prepare.