by Matt Miksa
The sun dipped and the temperature dropped. A handful of villagers collected around the fire, pulled together by the irrepressible need for human connection despite the health risks. Still, as a precaution, they spread out in a wide semicircle, even as their children wrestled on the field. Separating the kids seemed too cruel. The disease could ravage their village, destroy their crops, burn their homes, but it wouldn’t rob their children of their innocent desire to play.
Jo sat opposite the villagers, her back to the field, scribbling in a notepad. In the span of twenty-four hours, she’d performed surgery on her dying ex-husband and watched a victim chop away at her own flesh. Most people would be traumatized. Jo appeared unfazed. Olen recognized this stoic reaction to emotional distress. He’d experienced it too. Compartmentalize the grief. Ignore the pain. Just keep moving.
Olen used the front of his T-shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “Those kiddos have major skills,” he said, approaching Jo.
“Maybe fifteen against one was a bit unbalanced,” Jo suggested.
“I know. They didn’t stand a chance.” Olen cocked a grin.
Jo flipped the pages of her notebook. He suspected she was pretending not to be amused.
Olen sat and watched the sun retreat behind a natural stone formation lining the western edge of the field, where shaggy grass gave way to dense forest. The boulders, adorned with brightly painted symbols reaching ten feet high, created a stunning mural. From his vantage point, Olen could see the entire panoramic scene, which seemed to tell a story. Lotus flowers with delicate pink petals and scaly goldfish swam around what looked like a sunflower or a ship’s wheel, whose eight spokes protruded from an orange hub. Dramatic gray-and-black swirls curled in from the right and left edges, stretching toward the serene pond with menacing tendrils. The darkness prepared to overtake the colorful paradise and strangle the wildlife like an invasive vine. The art was disturbingly prophetic.
“It’s incredible how they do it,” Olen said, watching the children.
“Do what?” Jo asked.
“Act so … normal.”
Jo shrugged. The kids began another game. The teams were unclear. Everyone converged on whoever had the ball.
“Where did you get that key?” Jo asked, without looking up.
“What?”
“The one hanging around your neck. You weren’t wearing it before.”
“Oh, right.” Olen looped a thumb under the chain and pulled a small silver key through his collar. Jo must’ve noticed it when he lifted his shirt. “One of the boys gave it to me.”
“Doesn’t he need it?” Jo asked.
“Don’t think so. He found it lying in the grass over there, beside those painted rocks.” Olen pointed to the mural. “Seems like a pretty friendly neighborhood. I don’t imagine they have much need for locks around here.”
“He spoke English?”
“The boy? Yeah. Pretty good, too. These kids are remarkable. He said he used to live on the coast but his father got a better job out here.”
“In Dzongsar?” Jo sounded skeptical. This village was about as rural as it got—not exactly an economic hotbed.
“They’re going to build a railroad. Or at least they were.” Olen sensed Jo’s discomfort and decided to push a bit. “So, what’s with the firewall around Tibet? I don’t mean now, under quarantine, but in general. Even before the outbreak.”
“Because it’s dangerous out here.” Jo’s response came easily, as if she were a schoolgirl faithfully reciting the Party line.
“I’ve reported from a lot of dicey places, Doc. If you take this organ-melting virus out the equation, Tibet doesn’t seem so dangerous.”
“Politically, Kipton,” she explained, using Olen’s cover name. “Despite what you see here, there are people in the TAR who wish to do us great harm.”
“Us?”
“The government. Some radical groups don’t recognize the Chinese Communist Party as the legitimate governing authority in Tibet. Rebels have formed underground militias, attacked public buildings, coerced people into supporting their misguided cause.”
“What cause is that exactly?”
“The Dalai Lama’s cause. He foments unrest within the TAR. He inflames the rebels. It’s subversion,” Jo explained.
“Why would the Dalai Lama provoke the Chinese government? Tibet has no army of its own. Beijing would pulverize any organized resistance. Thousands of his people would be slaughtered.”
Jo glared at Olen. “You make us sound draconian. This isn’t Mao’s China. We don’t want conflict with the Tibetans. There’s no reason we can’t coexist under the harmonious arrangement that’s worked so well for decades.”
“So, what changed?” Olen asked.
“You tell me.” Jo sounded angry. “The Chinese government has spent millions to develop the TAR. We’ve built roads, hospitals, brought quality education to people who were still living in the Tang dynasty.”
“Sounds a bit like colonialism,” Olen said.
“It sounds like progress. In the last ten years, the Tibetan standard of living has skyrocketed. Life expectancy has doubled. Poverty and starvation are lower than ever and drop more every year. Beijing’s investment in Tibet has significantly increased the quality of life here.”
Olen kept pushing. “But can they still be Tibetan? Are the people here allowed to believe whatever they want? Speak their own language? Maybe they’d trade the paved roads for a little more … freedom.”
Jo’s porcelain skin burned deep red. The stress of the past few days finally boiled over. She slapped her notebook shut. “You know, it’s not just the Dalai Lama instigating the hostilities. It’s people like you.”
“Me? What did I do?” Olen asked.
“The Western media. Your biased view of Tibet—painting it as a helpless victim of an oppressive regime. It’s brainwashed the global community. There are elements within the UN—and your own government, for that matter—who would love nothing more than to see the Party fall. Has America learned nothing from the Arab Spring? You thrust guns into the hands of angry young men and act surprised when they use them to advance their own radical agenda.”
Olen waited. Jo didn’t seem quite finished.
“And you’re hypocrites!” Jo continued. “China lifts millions of Tibetans out of destitution so they can enjoy the same economic benefits as those of us living on the coast. For this, we are vilified. For God’s sake, your politicians in the United States deride the poor for using food stamps. At least we’re doing something to help the less fortunate.”
“I guess I never thought of it that way,” Olen admitted.
“That’s my point—and it’s a problem. You’re a journalist. People read your articles and think they’re reading facts. But you don’t consider the other side to the story.”
Jo’s breathing became more even. She’d released some pent-up steam. Olen regretted upsetting her.
The two sat on the grass in silence. Jo’s soft features flashed in the light of the bonfire. Deep shadows painted tortured expressions on her face. She hid her anguish well, but Olen knew she couldn’t keep it bottled up forever. The pressure she was under could crush a diamond.
Soft giggles from the children floated in the breeze.
“I’ve got to get back to the lab,” Jo said, rising to her feet.
* * *
A few cold raindrops tapped Olen’s forearm. Heavy clouds vanquished the last bit of sunlight. Mothers beckoned to their children, their long scarves whipping behind them like broken wings.
Olen had pushed Jo too far, but the conversation had helped him gauge her political loyalty. Something wasn’t right. Jo had been ordered to include him on her research team, but beyond that Beijing’s intentions were fuzzy. She’d made no attempt to isolate him. She’d allowed Olen to shadow her all day. He’d attended briefings with the clinic staff, met with the epidemiological surveyors, and even visited patients. Jo had explained everything to him, in English
, and never refused to answer his questions. Why would Beijing grant an American journalist such unfettered access? Was the Chinese government actually serious about transparency? Not likely.
An alternate scenario nagged at Olen. Maybe Dzongsar was a charade—a carefully orchestrated performance designed to manipulate public opinion in the West. Where were the hazmat teams, the helicopters, the armored cars, the detachments of soldiers patrolling the streets? Where were the swarms of doctors? The Q-Zone’s provisional lab barely met biosafety level two standards. Where were the pressurized rooms, the sealed double-door access, the electron microscopes? A soon as the Ministry of Health determined the danger the virus posed, wouldn’t it have descended on Dzongsar with the full might of its resources? Olen knew USAMRIID and the CDC wouldn’t touch this bug without sealed suits, decontamination showers, and labs with completely segregated air supplies. Was the Q-Zone nothing more than a sideshow? If so, Jo’s team would never uncover the truth behind the outbreak here. She had never been meant to. Her entire investigation was a farce.
Olen hoped he was wrong. He needed more time to assess Jo. She might be deceiving him, but Olen didn’t think so. Quite possibly Beijing was keeping the good doctor in the dark. Jo seemed genuinely determined to stop BRV45, and she was smart enough to do it. If Olen’s theory was right—if Dzongsar was an elaborate deception—what would her government do if she got too close to the truth?
The patch of grass became soggy. The villagers and their children retreated to escape the approaching storm. Olen started walking back toward the monastery, thinking about how to smooth things over with Jo, his shoes squishing in the mud.
DAY 11
CHAPTER
22
Beijing, People’s Republic of China
“THE OFFICIAL NUMBER published by the Chinese Ministry of Health is now twenty-two thousand, but outside experts with the World Health Organization estimate the actual number of infected to be as high as fifty thousand,” veteran correspondent Amanda Hughes reported from the northern edge of Tiananmen Square, directly across from the entrance to the Forbidden City. Her steely expression concealed her uneasiness. The situation in the square was approaching a fever pitch. Even mild protests could escalate into violent riots, she knew, and the protesters were committed. They came to the square in blatant defiance of the government-imposed restrictions—a ballsy move, especially in China.
No one had expected the disease to spread so fast. Within a matter of days, the bug had cut down perfectly healthy adults. A lot of them. In just the last forty-eight hours, everything had changed. Parks, schools, shopping malls, movie theaters—any place that drew large crowds—had all been closed indefinitely. Even the subway had stopped running. Hospitals were accessible by official order only. And, of course, there was the curfew. Police threatened to arrest anyone on the street after nine o’clock. It had sounded like an empty threat until people started disappearing. Not just adults either—kids too. Rumors were spreading of work camps in the Gobi, full of curfew violators who had been bused to the desert wilderness for hard labor.
Gripping the microphone, Amanda stared unblinking into the camera’s lens. “China’s five largest cities have been hit the hardest. As you can see behind me, the crisis has enraged the people of Beijing. In defiance of the city’s stringent curfew, thousands of residents have convened here in Tiananmen Square. Authorities have urged the crowd to disperse, citing the public health emergency, but as the hours pass, the demonstration has only surged. Police in full riot gear line the square, but as yet they have not engaged the protesters. Some citizen groups have set up small campsites, suggesting they have no intention of leaving. At this hour, there is no indication the square will clear by the afternoon. The entire scene is eerily reminiscent of the infamous government crackdown on student protesters that ended so tragically in this very spot thirty years ago. I’m Amanda Hughes for the BBC.”
The cameraman cut the feed and lifted the hulking equipment from his shoulder.
“Let’s shoot some quick B-roll and get the hell out of here,” Amanda suggested. Her voice had shed its confident broadcaster’s veneer. The mob, comprising mostly university-aged people, had grown unruly. Surgical masks dampened their passionate shouts, but the sea of flaring black eyes conveyed their visceral rage clearly enough. A group of young men punched the air in unison, chanting, “Zhonggong shi bingdu.” The Party is the virus.
Homemade posters depicting a defaced President Li bobbed above the crowd. One, reading FIRST PRESIDENT LI, THEN TAIWAN, featured a crude drawing of missiles. The object of the protesters’ fury was unmistakable. They held President Li Bingwen personally responsible for allowing Taiwan’s biological attack to go unpunished.
News reports had broken alleging that a Taiwanese intelligence officer had intentionally unleashed the virus in Tibet, and a mostly acquiescent public had transformed into a raging mob, demanding retribution. With their own government refusing to avenge the people’s suffering, protests were flaring. President Li had withdrawn. No one had spotted him publicly for days. In all her years reporting on China, Amanda had never seen the Party’s grip on power so tenuous.
The cameraman panned across the square. He paused on the gates to the Great Hall of the People—the legislative seat of the government. They’d captured this visual before. It was the same footage they’d shot in Idlib, Sana’a, and Tahrir Square. Images of the seeds of revolution.
Without warning, the pavement shuddered from an earsplitting blast. Amanda instinctively ducked, almost knocking into the cameraman, who swung his lens toward the sound. A brilliant orange fireball rose from the top of the Great Hall of the People. She could feel the heat, even from a hundred meters away.
“Christ! Did you get that?” Amanda yelled over the commotion.
The bomb caught the protesters by surprise, yet only a few ran off, panicked. Someone had attacked the Chinese Communist Party. Flames engulfed the building. Across the square, the mammoth portrait of Chairman Mao, positioned over the entrance to the old Imperial Palace, grinned in the flickering light. A few seconds passed before a deafening cheer, almost as loud as the explosion, thundered into the sky.
CHAPTER
23
Fort Detrick, Maryland, USA
DIRECTOR CAMERON RUBBED her eyelids. Back in her Fort Detrick office, she unplugged her computer and detached the Ethernet cable, just as she did every evening. Basic cybersecurity measures, she’d explain if asked. Everyone worried about Russian hackers, but Allyson didn’t trust the U.S. Army either. She’d learned to trust people, not bureaucracies.
Allyson buttoned her raincoat and began the long walk to her car. She hadn’t bothered to lock her office door. A locked door only stirred up curiosity. She’d left the lights on too. Not that she had a choice. The switch had been disabled. The hidden surveillance cameras didn’t see that well in the dark. It seemed the Army didn’t trust her either.
VECTOR headquarters—a lofty designation for a cluster of five dusty offices—sidled right up to the entrance to USAMRIID’s biosafety level four laboratory. Allyson had visited the lab only twice, and she didn’t want a reason to make a third trip. Past the locker rooms, the decontamination shower, and a series of airtight chambers, a team of brilliant researchers studied the world’s most deadly diseases. The scientists worked all day in a negative-pressure environment, trapped inside space suits. Oxygen fed through narrow yellow tubes that coiled from their backs up to a complex system of piping in the ceiling. Supposedly, people became accustomed to the claustrophobia. Allyson didn’t feel compelled to test the hypothesis herself. Her own windowless office was cramped enough.
The night air instantly energized the desk-weary operative. In her past life as an intelligence officer, nightfall had triggered a certain thrill. Nowadays the most danger Allyson faced was falling asleep in the bathtub. She should’ve turned down the VECTOR job. She was a goddamn spy, not a politician. But Barlow wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. President
s needed allies in the Community. Allyson had always been part of Barlow’s inner circle—a fact that drew the contempt of her peers. Many of them wanted to see her fail. When Allyson staffed VECTOR with CIA-trained operatives, the Pentagon brass had bellyached. They believed she’d enlisted a ring of Langley spooks to spy on the Army’s own intelligence service, the Defense Intelligence Agency. God forbid they actually cooperate with one another.
Before 9/11, the CIA and the Army had stayed out of each other’s way. After the towers fell, the Agency had drifted away from human intelligence and transformed into a paramilitary organization. It had started with those damn drones. A consortium of bookish academics now directed the country’s most lethal assassination campaign from a basement in Virginia. Elbow-patched philosophy majors with bombs.
The spy organization lacked the discipline and training for such potent combat, the military had contended. Langley chose targets too recklessly, under the protection of ambiguous legal justification.
Allyson tended to agree, but for different reasons. Drones were for unimaginative lunkheads. Anyone could tell a computer to unleash a Hellfire missile on some shit hole. What did it accomplish? There would always be more buttons to push and more shit holes to flatten. The Agency was wasting its best talent. The real work was on the ground. Infiltrating foreign communities that were naturally suspicious of outsiders, slowly earning their trust, building networks of sources willing to assume great risk to provide vital information to the United States—that was real intelligence work. The Army could never do that. They could keep their missiles.
