The Ears of a Cat

by Roderick Hart

  He handed over to Breitenbach, who took the gathering back to the little local difficulty which had broken out at Los Angeles Airport on February the fourteenth.

  ‘I have prepared a summary.’

  To Dietmayer’s dismay, she handed a copy to each of those present.

  ‘Before we go any further,’ he said, ‘I must request that no record of any sort leave this room. You will find a shredder in the corner beside the water tower.’

  And sure enough, there it was, its green status light winking on and off, an open invitation to even less transparency than there was already.

  Since Breitenbach’s team hadn’t cracked it yet, her document was stronger on process than conclusions. All known contacts with those infected had been traced and found to be healthy, so far, but to be safe they were still being monitored. Attention now concentrated on mail handling, every bit as demanding. A storage flask could not infect someone unless it had been opened; therefore, the packets to follow up were those which had been examined during the estimated nine-day incubation period prior to the outbreak. The number of such packets being large, investigating officers narrowed the field by excluding any opened packet found to contain drugs or banned plant or animal matter. Attention then focussed on those which had been opened, especially by Mrs Anderson and her team, and nothing suspicious found. Still a large number.

  ‘So according to your scenario, since an inspecting officer couldn’t detect a virus, he would reseal the package and send it on, infecting himself in the process.’

  ‘Herself on this occasion, Herr Dietmayer. But yes, that is what we believe.’

  ‘And you are with the Epidemic Intelligence Service?’

  ‘From the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention out of Atlanta.’

  Dietmayer was now asking questions to which he already knew the answers, and Pienaar was defensive enough to put on record the fact that he had properly covered the bases.

  ‘As per my background briefing of the twenty-fifth.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you say you’re rather far from home, Ms Breitenbach?’ Dietmayer asked, plainly taking a dim view of a foreign national whose jurisdiction did not extend to his little empire in Parndorf and demoting her from Doctor in the process.

  ‘In the last three years alone, I have visited Somalia, Vietnam, Sierra Leone and the Côte d’Ivoire, so no, I wouldn’t say that. By comparison to these destinations, the Republic of Austria is my backyard.’

  ‘But one presumes you were invited to visit those far-flung destinations because the locals hoped to benefit from your expertise.’

  Dietmayer had taken an instant dislike to Breitenbach for several reasons: she was a woman; she hadn’t made the slightest concession to that fact, either in her clothing or adornment, but most of all because her presence implied a problem at his plant. He watched with dismay as she took the visitor ID from her neck, placed it on the table and stood up to leave.

  ‘I can go away if you like,’ she smiled, ‘and refer this matter to the police.’

  Pienaar was appalled and did his best to rescue the situation.

  ‘Not at all, you’re very welcome, Ms Breitenbach,’ and added, glaring at Dietmayer, ‘your visit was approved at the highest level; we’re happy to help you in any way we can.’

  By the highest level, he was referring to himself, though Dietmayer had no way of knowing that.

  ‘In fact,’ Breitenbach pointed out, ‘I’m here to assist.’

  At this point, following a quiet courtesy knock, Breakout’s head of research entered the room with a sheaf of papers.

  ‘My apologies, fight to the death with a photocopier.’ He smiled at Molly Breitenbach. ‘Good afternoon, Dr Breitenbach; your reputation precedes you.’

  Dietmayer didn’t like the sound of this; he didn’t know she had one.

  ‘As does yours, Dr Heidegger.’

  And so, the confrontation defused, Breitenbach continued.

  ‘Three airport staff having no contact with infected birds have succumbed, so we’re dealing with a mutation. With respect to our methodology, we have listed every location with previous outbreaks, all biolabs known to be working on avian flu vaccines, plus the points of origin of all opened packages not yet crossed off our list. We then cross-referenced these data and were left with six possible sources.’

  ‘This being one.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Heidegger turned to Dietmayer. ‘This is where my old friend Gunther points out that we have robust security protocols in place in this facility.’

  ‘Indeed we do. And to be clear, I assume we’re gathered here today because one of your many packages was sent from this building.’

  A new voice came from his left. ‘A suspect package was sent from Germany.’

  Really, where did these people come from! Frau Lang called to mind a windswept haystack, a middle-aged woman of whom no one could say that every hair was in place.

  ‘Germany!’

  ‘A connection exists,’ she explained, ‘between one of your employees and a woman we currently have under surveillance.’

  ‘That employee being?’

  ‘Gudrun Grönefeld.’

  ‘Ah.’ Pienaar let this slip before he could stop himself.

  ‘You already have concerns about this woman?’

  ‘It would be more accurate to say that she has concerns about us, entirely misplaced, I might add. She went so far as to take them to the BVT.’

  ‘Who notified us,’ Lang said, ‘hence our interest.’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Pienaar confirmed. ‘Ms Grönefeld was concerned about a viral escape from our labs. She even went so far as to warn of a possible armed attack by terrorists. Ridiculous, of course, but nothing I or Herr Dietmayer could say would reassure her.’

  ‘And no such attack has occurred.’

  ‘No, Ms Breitenbach, it has not. I think we might have noticed.’

  Dietmayer looked past Lang to Dieter Klein, a known quantity, a man he could get on with, always well turned out and on top of his brief. Why was he leaving everything to his dishevelled sidekick? He was writing something, notes to himself, at high speed. Crossing out then writing again. With a pencil. Despite the ventilation system, his brow was beaded with sweat.

  ‘Herr Klein?’

  Klein looked round the room as if he was seeing it for the first time, but at some level he’d been taking it all in.

  ‘We can confirm a connection between Grönefeld and an academic by the name of Catherine Cooper, despite her name, a German national. We have brought a summary of what little we know thus far, but her concern may simply be the prevention rather than the spread of man-made biological pathogens.’

  As Klein circulated copies of this document, Dietmayer groaned inwardly; more paper to keep an eye on. His work was never done.

  ‘In any case,’ he said, ‘there is no way this woman could have removed biological material from the building. I’ll be happy to review our procedures with our visitors at the conclusion of this meeting, but let me just say that we have passed all our inspections with flying colours.’

  Breitenbach turned to Pienaar. ‘I’m sure we’re relieved to hear that.’

  She was aware of multiple failures in this area in the United States alone and took no one’s word for anything. Boxes were there to be ticked. Anyone could do it and anyone usually did.

  ‘Now, Dr Heidegger, you indicated in your written response that you have H7N9 in this facility. The question for us in infection control would be the nature of your research.’

  Before Heidegger could answer, Dietmayer pointed out that information of that sort was commercially sensitive. Any reply their head of research might give should bear that in mind.

  ‘Very well,’ Heidegger said, ‘but I can give Dr Breitenbach indications which may be helpful to her, for exa
mple, in excluding Breakout as the source of the current outbreak.’

  Dietmayer liked the sound of this and nodded; exclusion would get these people out of his hair. What was left of it, he thought, running a hand through it.

  ‘Very well,’ Heidegger began, ‘on the understanding that this goes no further. I should perhaps take as my starting point recombinant H7 proteins. We now incline to the view that they require three amino acid mutations if specificity to human receptors is to be enabled. I am referring here to receptors in the trachea and the bronchial passages.’

  But just thirty seconds into Dr Heidegger’s explanation of mutation analysis of conserved residues in the H7 receptor-binding pocket, Pienaar cleared his own bronchial passages by way of stemming the flow.

  ‘I’m sure this is very instructive, Dr Heidegger, but with the exception of Dr Breitenbach, the rest of us are ill-equipped to follow you.’

  Klein looked up from his notes. ‘I don’t understand any of it and intend to remain that way.’

  Lang looked at him as if he had a screw loose. He had always been brusque, but now he was rude as well. That would get him nowhere.

  ‘Yes, so on that positive note,’ Pienaar continued, ‘I would suggest a private discussion between doctors Heidegger and Breitenbach, perhaps in Dr Heidegger’s office?’

  As the meeting broke up, Klein and Lang accepted Pienaar’s offer of refreshments in the staff canteen, Heidegger and Breitenbach headed for the labs, and Dietmayer went round the room collecting every scrap of paper he could find as offerings to his household god, the shredder. He’d noticed Klein crumpling up some sheets of paper and dropping them in the waste bin on his way out, not the recommended procedure for meetings such as this. He removed them, took them to the table and spread them out. There were several scribbled notes and strike-throughs, but Dietmayer managed to decipher references to Gramineae, whatever they were. Plainly plants of some sort. No evidence whatever of viral attack. What was this about? Then something more personal. Being played for a fool here. And finally, Could use this to my advantage. For the first time, Dietmayer began to wonder if Klein, looking down on humanity from an eccentric orbit of his own, had signed up with the space cadets. He placed the evidence in his folder and left the room.

  28

  ‘So, Herr Klein, you’ve been referred to me regarding your state of mind, specifically with a view to determining your fitness, psychologically speaking, to continue in the service. Please take a seat.’ Looking round her office with its four empty chairs, Klein wondered if the first test was which one to sit in. Sensing his anxiety, the psychologist reassured him. ‘Any one will do, it doesn’t matter.’

  He selected a chair facing the door, the better to deal with any surprise attack from that direction. She clocked this, as she would.

  ‘My name is Barbara Grenzenlos. Please feel free to address me as Barbara. I’m a qualified psychologist registered with the BPD. But you should know at the outset that I cannot prescribe medication of any sort.’

  ‘Who would expect that you would?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. In my time I’ve received requests for sleeping pills, anti-anxiety medication, antidepressants and, on one occasion, weight loss tablets.’ She paused before changing the subject. ‘Before we go any further, I’m obliged to point out that if, over time, you come to disagree with my direction of travel in these conversations, you’re welcome to seek a second opinion from a professional of your own choosing.’

  ‘Provided I pay for it myself.’

  Klein hoped a second opinion might not be needed. First impressions were of an amenable woman open to rational argument. Her attire was casual. There was no trace of ostentation about her – little in the way of makeup, bracelets, necklaces, and the like. And as far as he could see, looking while appearing not to, she had no tattoos in currently favoured locations such as the ankle or the nape of the neck.

  What she did have was a white blouse adorned with eye-catching floral embroidery, yellow roses and blue cornflowers artfully intertwined. Open at the top with two of its three buttons undone, Klein was visited by the intuition that if he had been of heterosexual persuasion, he would already be dissolving into a pool of seminal fluid on her consulting room floor. In fact, her apparel, and what it suggested of the body beneath, might be a further test for heterosexual males, lesbian females and those wandering souls subject to the non-binary confusion of the age; a test which they would fail, or pass, if their gaze strayed too often to the suggestion of the ravine between her breasts.

  The only possible caveat was her age. As far as he could tell, she was twenty years younger than he was, so he had to wonder how much experience she had behind her. Having letters after your name is no substitute for experience, as he knew only too well from his years in the service.

  ‘Before we proceed, I have a question.’

  ‘By all means.’

  His reading suggested that professionals such as her came in various shapes and sizes, each adhering to a particular school of thought with its attendant analytic method. Was this the case?

  ‘You’re absolutely right. For myself, I was trained in dynamic analysis, though in recent years I’ve gravitated more to transactional analysis. When time has been in short supply, I have even resorted to SFT.’

  ‘SFT?’

  ‘Solution Focussed Therapy.’

  ‘My goodness, your profession seems to be afflicted by a veritable plethora of competing therapies.’

  She raised her hands in the air, palms upwards. ‘I’m afraid so. Anyway, that’s about it, really. So if we could, perhaps, start at the beginning. You may see me taking notes, purely as an aide-memoire. I hope that will not disturb you.’

  Like everyone else, Klein had been born at an early age. Unless being ignored might be classified as abuse, the household had not been abusive. At first, his mother had ignored him in favour of his father. Then, when she’d set up a ménage a trois with a carpenter from Lower Saxony, a man with an impressive arsenal of tools and the muscles to match, young Dieter was ignored in favour of him. After two years, his father could take no more, packed what was left of his pride in an overnight bag and departed the scene never to return. If anything, his mother was relieved; her husband was no great loss. Klein couldn’t remember him well enough to say.

  ‘Any happy memories of this time?’

  ‘My mother played the piano.’

  ‘You liked that.’

  The music was a calming influence, though the instrument was old and the dampers needed attention. He remembered, or thought he did, a sonorous waltz wafting through the air from a neighbouring room while he sat in the kitchen looking out of the window at a laburnum in full bloom, wishing he had a dog. Grenzenlos noted this, with an addendum that this rather uptight man had unresolved attachment issues. And having written this, she scored through the word unresolved on the grounds that had they been resolved they wouldn’t still be issues.

  ‘You play the piano yourself?’

  This innocent question followed on from the fact that Klein’s mother was a pianist, but at once it opened up a major concern for Klein, who explained as best he could his problem in regaining his previous standard at the keyboard, why he’d been trying to do it and the decision he had now arrived at. Grenzenlos was astonished but concealed it well.

  ‘Well, I must say, you set yourself quite a task with the Bach. But perhaps,’ she added quizzically, ‘no less a task with your symphony?’

  This question had occurred to Klein himself, but until that moment he had no answer to it. Now suddenly challenged on the point, he knew what it was – out of the blue a welcome gift from his subconscious.

  ‘At least with the symphony, I’ll be standing on no one’s shoulders; whatever I express will be exclusively my own.’

  It occurred to Grenzenlos to ask whether this work, if completed, would owe absolutely n
othing to the many others which preceded it, but in raising this issue, she would stray too far from the objective set by her employers: should this man qualify for early retirement on mental health grounds? And she was beginning to think he might, if only because his ambitions appeared to be at variance with his ability to achieve them, an indication, perhaps, of a weakened sense of reality.

  ‘And you have written compositions on a smaller scale, a piano trio perhaps, a quartet?’

  ‘As studies, you mean, testing my wings? I’m afraid the answer is no. If I were a young man again,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I would certainly adopt that approach, but time is not on my side.’

  Grenzenlos looked down at her notes.

  ‘Come now, Herr Klein, you’re only fifty-four years of age. You may well have decades of productive life ahead of you.’

  ‘That may be, Fräulein Grenzenlos, but none of us knows the day or the hour. Mozart was thirty-five when he was taken from us, thirty-five!’

  While this was true, Grenzenlos noted that, moving on from Bach, he was now comparing himself to Mozart. Not directly, perhaps, but the implication was there, and she wrote delusions of grandeur? in her notepad. Purely as an aide-memoire.

  ‘Do you find your work arduous, demanding?’

  ‘It ranges from drudgery to the downright ludicrous. For example, I have just returned from a pointless trip to Austria in search of a viral leak. A video conference would have covered it, but no, we have to attend in person. How deep are the taxpayers’ pockets supposed to be!’

  Deep enough to fund your early retirement, Grenzenlos thought, not answering his question.

  ‘Plainly a stressful job. So when you feel the need to relax?’

  He was about to mention Transmission Meditation, but thought better of it because a psychologist, shaped by her training and preconceptions, might not take it seriously.