Free ViraVax by Bill Ransom Page A

versed himself in the hot fluidity of the politics and he had learned a decent Spanish, though only English was permitted at the private American School on the embassy grounds. Harry had just graduated at fifteen and looked forward to never going back.
    Grace Toledo told Harry everything she knew because Harry was her most constant companion. Still, a black hole of secrecy ruled Costa Brava with Colonel Toledo as choreographer. Neither Harry nor his mother had been able to penetrate its veil. She briefed him on the usual security precautions as they were passed to her.
    “See how our cannibals dance” meant that all personnel were restricted to embassy grounds or to quarters, due to an undisguisable incident involving the internal law of the country. Action against Americans was imminent. Harry was sure that this message had already flashed among embassy personnel due to the incident between his parents.
    According to the official embassy releases, no guerrilla activity penetrated within fifty klicks of the capital, yet the power substation on the block behind them blew up with chilling regularity. Harry had stopped believing the embassy, and his father, long ago.
    Williams pulled up behind a bunker-like building fronted by a row of shabby garages on the Avenue of the Martyrs. Harry recognized the structure immediately as a “hot-sheet” motel. He understood now the meaning of the word “guesthouse.”
    This particular motel was a singularly unremarkable place on a narrow street that offered plenty of cover behind burned-out cars but few options for escape. His father had taught him to observe these things, and he did so now out of habit. Much of the embassy’s intelligence was gathered electronically, but the Costa Bravans still relied on real eyes staring out real windows, on real ears against the right doors.
    Grace Toledo dismissed Williams in the street across from the motel garages. Three of the roll-up doors stood open for business. After the Archbishop’s car disappeared around the corner, Grace hurried Harry through the leftmost of the three.
    Hot-sheet motels provided the ultimate accommodations for the clandestine affairs of a traditionally Catholic nation. Designed to meet the illicit playtime needs of diplomats, politicians and the occasional priest or nun, the hot-sheet motels also hid guerrillas, political refugees and bandits.
    They made perfect temporary isolation units for “hot ones,” the unvaccinated infected, or “cold ones,” the vaccinated but infected. The unvaccinated and the uninfected, like Harry, they simply called “lucky.” The latest vaccine, one that his father’s Agency helped the World Health Organization to distribute, was supposed to end the need for vaccination once and for all. His parents’ last argument had exploded over the subject of vaccinations.
    A hot-sheet motel had no office. The client drove into one of the open double garages. A locked door led from garage to accommodations. To the left of the driver’s door a large drawer jutted from the wall. This drawer held a tray for cash and a rate schedule that boasted the convenience of a one-hour minimum fee.
    Harry’s mother counted out some bills into the tray and closed the drawer. She drummed her fingernails on the handle and Harry heard someone rustling on the other side of the wall. A small red light winked on and the sign next to it said “Listo.” She slid it open and took out a stack of towels with a key on top. She handed the towels to Harry and opened the door.
    Harry had seen a lot of motels during their vacations around the region, but this one was different. A single window high on the courtyard wall admitted sunlight but prevented casual snooping—or sniping. A huge bed with a thick red bedspread took up most of the space. Weavings of Maya design hung on the walls, resplendent in ancient sexual practices. A peek into the bathroom revealed a condom dispenser next to their complimentary champagne. The