Plague: A gripping suspense thriller about an incurable outbreak in Miami

off that stack of dollars and make out you’re Thomas Edison, slaving away in a shed. You’ve got to make the jury believe that Forward stole this idea from a plain and hard-working American worthy. Ivor, in cases of patent infringement, you have to look deserving, as well as right.’
Glantz slumped down in his chair. ‘I’m beginning to wish that patents were never invented.’
Manny opened his briefcase and began to shuffle green and yellow papers. ‘Well, maybe you do,’ he said, in his plangent Bronx voice. ‘But if you keep hold of this one, it will make you rich. I mean, really rich. Not just rich rich.’
Ivor Glantz watched his attorney rustling through sheaves of flimsy legal paper with mounting distaste. He had never liked litigation, but right now he had about as much say in the matter as a man who leaps off the Empire State Building has in whether he hits the ground or not. He took a cigar out of the breast pocket of his tight gray suit, and clipped the end with a gold cutter. He lit up, and began to puff out cloud after cloud of pungent blue smoke.
Glantz was not a handsome or friendly-looking man. He was almost bald except for a frieze of neatly-oiled curls around the back of his neck. His face was apishly coarse while his bright, near-together eyes were as sharp as his tongue.
He smoked some more, and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. He hadn’t even had time to get used to his new apartment – one of thirty luxurious new condos in Concorde Tower. He had wanted to spend this month settling in, rearranging the paintings and the furniture, and sorting out his stacks of books. His stepdaughter Esmeralda, who shared the condo with him, had already shuffled the bedrooms and the sitting-room into some kind of shape, but Glantz felt the need to move things around himself.
It was all Sergei Forward’s fault. When Ivor Glantz had returned six weeks ago from an extended lecture tour of South and Central America, explaining his new bacteriological techniques to major universities, he had been tired and irritable and aching for rest. But then he had picked up Scientific American to find a lengthy and colorful article by Sergei Forward on how he, the great Finnish research bacteriologist, had discovered how to mutate various bacilli with Uranium-235.
Glantz had had no choice at all but to sue, and right now, the case of the mutated bacilli was a minor cause célèbre in the Federal District courts.
Manny Friedman sniffed, and then took out a crisp white handkerchief and blew his nose like the second bassoon in the Boston Pops.
‘Tomorrow,’ he said, ‘we start proving what a two-hundred-percent clean cut, hard-working American fellow you are. We also emphasize the privations of your background – how hard it was to get to the top.’
Ivor Glantz stared. ‘Privations?’ he said. ‘What do you mean – privations?’
‘Your parents had to work for a living, didn’t they? That’s a privation.’
‘My father, as you well know, was president of the Glantz and Howell Banking Trust. That’s not exactly your roach-ridden corner store.’
Manny looked philosophic. ‘Well, maybe it’s not. But we’ll try and play that down. Let’s just say that you worked your way to the top through your own efforts, and despite some hard luck and bad knocks, you made it.’ Ivor stood up, and walked across to the far wall. He carefully straightened a large abstract canvas, and stepped back to make sure it was hanging true.
‘Manny, you’re wasting your time. Just go in there tomorrow and show the jury the absolute, indisputable truth. Sergei Forward is a cheap no-hoper who thought he could filch his way to medical fame by cadging my discovery. Tell the jury something they’ll understand. Tell them he’s just as much a thief as the guy who steals apples from the A. & P.’
Manny rubbed his nose. ‘I don’t know whether that’s the right approach, Ivor. Most of the people you get in juries these days are so poor that stealing apples from the A. & P. is nothing. They do it themselves, all the time.’
The door chime rang. Ivor went across and opened it, and in came Esmeralda, piled high with marketing bags and with a long French loaf tucked under her arm. She kissed him lightly on the cheek.
‘Hi, pa. Hi, Manny. Tonight, we eat French. Clams gratinées, baby lamb with fresh beans, and hot garlic bread.’
Manny, rising up from his chair, dropped a pile of papers on to the carpet. ‘I’m afraid I can’t eat garlic,’ he blushed. ‘It gives me heartburn.’
Ivor came over and patted him on the back. ‘That’s okay, Manny. You’re not invited to dinner anyway.’ Esmeralda walked through the sitting-room and into the kitchen. She dumped her parcels and her loaf of bread, and came back in. ‘He can stay if he wants to. I bought enough for three.’
Ivor sucked his cigar and shook his head. ‘I’ve had enough of attorneys for one day. I would just like to spend an evening in the quiet and charming company of my daughter.’
‘It’s quite okay,’ Manny said. ‘My sister is coming around tonight, and she cooks a beautiful fish pie.’
‘That’s wonderful for you. Es – do you want a drink? I’ll just show Manny out.’
‘Brandy-soda,’ called Esmeralda, disappearing into one of the bedrooms, ‘I’m just going to change into something more comfortable. See you soon, Manny. Come for dinner next time.’
Ivor showed Manny to the door.
‘There’s just one thing,’ said Manny, laying his hand on Ivor’s sleeve. ‘When we go in there tomorrow, I want you to understand that you mustn’t show any signs of bitterness, or revenge. I want you to act magnanimous. Like, Forward’s made a mistake, but you’re willing to forgive and forget – provided he drops his claim to the process. If you’re all sour grapes and spit, the jury won’t like you. Will you do that for me?’
Ivor stared at