003.

Boredom was an unkind companion. Three hours stuck within a closed hospital room, with no word of when they would let him go. No television, and they had taken his PDA phone as well. No, there was nothing for Donovan to do but wait and worry.

They had taken his temperature, more than a few draughts of blood, and even swabbed his mouth for saliva. No urine tests yet, but he knew they were coming. Probably even a proctology exam for good measure.

The scene at the restaurant had been chaotic after the foreign man had died. People scattered, for fear of some outbreak. The so-called swine flu had set the stage for mass paranoia, and seeing a man drop dead in a place where many were eating started the balls of fear rolling. The EMTs had treated him carefully, shuttling him away after a brief talk with the police. Helena was distressed and apologetic, but a few words of reassurement were enough to calm her nerves. The deal might could be salvaged, when and if Donovan escaped from his new medical prison.

The nurse that occasionally checked on him was firm, but he could see the undercurrent of fear in her eyes. The eyes were the only thing he could really draw from, as everyone around him now wore the surgical breather masks. Yes, some crazy Arab man had chosen him as the victim of bio-terrorism. Donovan Hart, the man to bring the plague to Raleigh. The modern day First Horseman of the Apocalypse.

"Enough drama," he said to himself, looking at the sparse pamphlet offerings available for the third time. Did he want to read about Diabetes or Cerebral Palsy? He had even scoured the room for a copy of the bible, but to no avail. He wasn't a religious man, but some of the stories held an interest for him. If nothing else, it could help calm him down enough to let him sleep.

Ten minutes into his study of blood glucose levels, the door opened without a knock to announce it. A man wearing a dark brown suit jacket stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

"Mr. Hart? I'm Marcus DeShaab with the State Bureau of Investigations." The man did not extend his hand in greeting, but Donovan did note that he was not wearing a mask or gloves. "I'd like to ask you a few questions about Hazlain Sandhisti." He took a seat on the metal stool the doctor had used before.

"Sand-who?" Donovan set the pamphlet down, trying to gather his senses.

"Sandhisti. The man who found you in the restaurant." He waited.

Donovan saw the distrusting look in his eyes. He's trying to read me, to see if I'm lying. "Found me? I thought he just fell on me, before... you know. I've never seen this guy before tonight."

"You've never met, nor had any dealings or arrangements with the deceased?"

"No! God, no."

DeShaab paused, flexing the muscles in his left hand. A smoker's gesture, revealing a bit of nervous energy.

"So what is it you do for a living, Mr. Hart?"

"I'm a Contract Facilitator. I make deals happen."

Donovan didn't appreciate the accusatory questions, even if it was the man's job. It was time to control the conversation.

"So why is the SBI interested in this Sandhisti guy? Is he some kind of criminal? Or a terrorist?" Donovan watched DeShaab after every question. His brow raised a bit at the mention of terrorism, acknowledging that this was a possibility.

"All I can say is that Mr. Sandhisti was a person of interest. We need to find out all we can before anything is revealed to the press or public."

"Good," Donovan replied. "Hey, you're not wearing a mask. Hopefully that means I'm not infected with anything. So I'll be free to go soon?"

"Yes, sir, you'll be free to go soon enough." Donovan caught a slight downward shift of his head along with a turned hand gesture. Did he just lie to me?

Agent DeShaab stood from the stool and smoothed out the creases in his slacks. He turned to the door, but before opening it, he turned back with a remembered question. The action was rehearsed, but not well-executed. "By the way, before the deceased passed on, did he say or hand you anything in particular?"

Donovan thought about it for a moment and responded no. "He spoke a few words, but I couldn't understand them. Maybe in Farsi..."

"Hindi."

"Excuse me?" he asked.

"Hindi. He was Indian, not Muslim." Donovan nodded that he understood. Satisfied, the agent opened the hospital door. "I'll leave my card at the nurse's station. If you have any information or questions, feel free to call me. I'm sure we'll be in contact if we have more questions."

As the door shut, Donovan held his hand to his chest in a hopes of calming his racing heartbeat. Why had he lied to the officer about the ring? It could have just slid off of his hand, but deep down, Donovan knew the old man had tried to give it to him. Was this Sandhisti a terrorist? God, did they think that he was involved with a terrorist? And why was the agent lying to him? Were they not planning on letting him leave?

Nothing felt right. There were too many unanswered questions for Donovan to sit and be complacent. Never be reactive! How many executives had he told that to? He couldn't sit here and be reactive. The possibile consequences rolled through his mind. The SBI (and whoever they reported to) would tear his life apart, looking for connections to this dead terrorist. No family, no real ties to others, they could afford to hang him out to dry while they conjured a bogus case against him. Even if it was on the dramatic side, he couldn't take that chance.

He had to get out of here.