The Zeno Effect

by Andrew Tudor

  To her surprise and dismay, she was beginning to think that Scottish governance wasn’t quite as distinctively transparent and democratic as she had always believed. It certainly wasn’t as authoritarian and closed to debate and disagreement as were the English government circles with whom she had been accustomed to dealing, but the health minister’s insistence on making no immediate public statement still rankled with her. Early containment was vital in controlling the spread of epidemic disease so they could at least have required notification from Scottish GPs and hospitals of any unusual viral episodes, even in advance of identification of the virus itself. Still, the real test would come when they got the additional information from Irene. Then, surely, officialdom would have to act. Doing her best to comfort herself with that thought, Ali returned to the distraction of writing reports. We’ll see soon enough, she said to herself, and then no doubt things will really start to happen.

  At Patchway Primary School in a north-west suburb of Bristol, a teacher paused outside the door of his first class of the day. He took a deep breath, listened fruitlessly for the customary sounds of lively behaviour from his fifth-year charges, opened the door and stopped dead on the threshold. Instead of the usual twenty-plus children there were only two. One of them, clearly relishing his teacher’s surprise, announced: “It’s a bug, sir. My sister’s got it and so have lots of kids on the estate. There was even an ambulance around this morning. Are classes cancelled?” As he wondered what to reply the teacher became aware that two of his colleagues were emerging from their classrooms further down the corridor. They exchanged similarly nonplussed looks and then, as one, made their way towards the head teacher’s office.

  9

  A few days later Irene and Julie found themselves unexpectedly in possession of tickets for adjacent seats in a small art-house cinema in East Dulwich. In Irene’s case the source of the ticket was all too clear. Late one afternoon Jonathan Hart had arrived in her office unannounced, clutching a book.

  “Professor Johnson, forgive me for interrupting but I knew I was coming this way and I recalled that you had asked me about the workings of the intelligence community.”

  Irene had done no such thing, but before she could say anything Hart hurried on.

  “I’ve brought you this book. Originally I intended to give you an official history, but then I thought that fiction would be rather more entertaining. This is a classic. John Le Carré’s Tinker, Taylor, Soldier, Spy. Well over fifty years old but still an excellent read and offers a vivid sense of the moral ambiguities of the intelligence world. I do hope that you enjoy it.”

  As he handed her the book Irene noticed the edge of a brown envelope just showing from among the pages. Of course. A means of passing a message without attracting the attention of whatever surveillance might be in place.

  “Thank you so much. I think I did read it many years ago but I expect I’ve forgotten all the details by now.” She raised a conspiratorial eyebrow. “If I remember rightly, it is a rather complicated story involving much deception and betrayal.”

  “Indeed it is.” Hart’s smile in response to her ironic tone was a little forced, giving him the look of an improbably benevolent shark. “We must discuss that when you have had a chance to think about it.”

  And with that he was gone, leaving Irene wondering whether she dared to check the envelope now. Probably not, she thought, putting the book in her bag to be examined later.

  Julie’s ticket, by contrast, had arrived digitally and anonymously. So anonymous, in fact, that when she ran some illicit software which was designed to reveal the true source from which the email had been sent, an error message informed her that it had, in effect, come from nowhere. Along with the ticket came a note suggesting that if she wished to know further facts about the death of Dr Charles Livermore she should ensure that she was occupying the seat detailed in the ticket at least ten minutes before the screening was due to start. Her informant – a middle-aged woman – would sit next to her, and they should strike up a conversation as if this were an accidental encounter.

  Later in the day when Irene was finally able to examine her message safely, it proved to be similar except that it provided rather more information about her prospective cinema-going companion and suggested that she did not reveal her own identity. The journalist would surely figure it out in due course, it went on, but there was no point in making the task too easy. It also advised that she held back any information about the Zeno effect itself, while offering to provide more intelligence at a later date. This would keep the journalist committed to protecting her source in the hope of further such details. The facts of the Porton Down security breach, Livermore’s suicide, and the spreading of a genetically engineered flu virus at the cathedral and at Stonehenge would be more than enough for this first meeting.

  So it was that in the late afternoon of the next day Julie was in her seat a good fifteen minutes before the scheduled screening of an obscure Chinese film. The cinema was very thinly populated – Chinese art-movies, even well reviewed ones such as this, did not have huge drawing power – and Julie’s section of seating was completely unoccupied. A combination of excitement and nervousness made her fidgety, and several times she half turned to check the auditorium entrance only to stop with the thought that she should not be drawing attention to herself at what was, after all, a secret assignation.

  A couple of minutes passed extremely slowly. Maybe this woman won’t turn up, Julie thought, maybe I’m being set up in some way. That possibility added to her anxiety and she was on the point of retreating to the toilets when an ordinary-looking woman in her sixties took the seat next to her. Leaning down to place her bag on the floor between her feet, she turned towards Julie as if to apologise for the inconvenience.

  “Hello Julie,” she murmured. “We’ll have to be quick to get through this before the show begins. We’ve got about ten minutes.”

  It turned out to be a packed ten minutes in which Julie listened with growing astonishment to Irene’s whispered chronicle, interrupting only a couple of times to clarify a point. Cynical though Julie was about politicians and their like, even she was taken aback at their determination to cover up something which would have such a terrible impact on so many of those whose interests they were meant to protect. It was only when Irene at last fell silent that Julie recovered some of her carefully cultivated journalistic scepticism. Perhaps she really was being set up. If she published wild claims such as these they might easily be refuted, whereupon the original story would also be discredited. But then again, why would they want to manipulate her in this way unless she really was onto something? She turned towards Irene and fixed her with a steady look.

  “How do you know all this? How do I know that I can believe you?”

  “I’m an official in the government’s science division with access to this kind of information.” Irene grimaced. “Believe me, I wouldn’t be telling you any of it if I thought there was another way in which I could force the government’s hand. As to why you should believe me, well, I’m sure we’ll start getting serious flu cases soon enough. We probably have already, but not yet on a scale that’s been worth reporting. Why don’t you check with clinics and hospitals around Salisbury? Cases might show up there more quickly than anywhere else.”

  “I’ll do that. How can I get in touch with you?”

  Irene shook her head. “You can’t. I’m under surveillance and you would be too if you tried to reach me. I’ll contact you when I know more.”

  Then, as the auditorium lights dimmed for the start of the show, she added hastily, “We mustn’t be seen leaving together. I’ll sit through the whole film. You wait until part way through and leave as if you weren’t enjoying it. You probably won’t be anyway. I’m sure I won’t.”

  As Irene predicted, Julie found the film interminably dull and was relieved to make her escape well before the end. She was staying overnight wit
h friends in Clapham, and as she made her way there her thoughts were tumultuous. The story was potentially huge. It was her Watergate opportunity, even down to now having a ‘Deep Throat’ all of her own. But it was risky too. If the authorities were as eager to cover things up as her source insisted, they would think nothing of blocking anything she wrote, even, perhaps, detaining her. Like most citizens of England in the later 2020s she had become adept at suppressing her own awareness of how authoritarian the regime had become. It was easier and safer that way. Now, however, she was right up against it, considering whether to put herself at serious risk in the cause of the independent press ideals that she had so often espoused. If Deep Throat had been able to find her, presumably via the Wessex Web piece, then the intelligence agencies could certainly do so too. So if she was to publish she would have to do it quickly, via the website again, but also through other channels to ensure that the story was spread as widely as possible. That could give her some protection. The government, eager to deny any charges of running a police state, might not feel able to detain her when she was irreversibly in the public eye.

  But if she was to go ahead she didn’t have much time. The new piece would have to be drafted that night and consigned to her editor through one of several encrypted messaging systems to which he subscribed. Early in the morning she would travel home via Salisbury where she could make enquiries about a ‘rumoured upsurge in flu cases’, adding to the ongoing story any information that she gleaned. As soon as The Wessex Web had the report up – for his constant support she owed her editor the right to be first – she would pass it on to all the national news sites and vlog it herself across social media. With any luck this saturation would put her at the eye of an internet news storm, making it very hard for someone to arrange for her disappearance. Yes, it was a workable approach, she thought. Not much of one, admittedly, but in the circumstances better than just remaining silent. Her heroes, Woodward and Bernstein, would have wished for no less.

  Early the following day Julie was on the first shuttle to the south-west in a state of considerable anxiety. She had worked late into the night, first of all hunting down her informant’s identity. It hadn’t taken long since the Science Ministry website conveniently carried photographs of its various advisory staff. Satisfied that her Deep Throat was genuine, she had then written and sent off the article and, that morning, had received a terse message from her editor: “Received. Going with it.” Ever since then, oblivious to the scenic countryside of Surrey and Hampshire rolling past the shuttle windows, she had been repeatedly checking the Wessex Web on her tablet. At last the article appeared, blazoned with a huge headline and adorned with pictures of the various locations. He had done her proud, she thought gratefully as she reread the piece. Now she could post links to it on social media sites, cut and paste a blog here and there, record some vlogs, and lastly send links to the full set of national news organisations. Some of them would assuredly pick it up.

  By the time the shuttle reached Salisbury that was mostly done, and it was with a mixture of elation, foreboding and urgency that she sat down to figure out a route around the city’s various medical centres and hospitals.

  In Edinburgh, Ali sat staring at her screen with glazed eyes. The tedium of writing endless and probably futile reports had reduced her to what felt like a state of terminal exhaustion. Even so, the fact that she was nearing completion of those tasks offered only temporary respite since actually finishing the job would then confront her with enforced holiday time. She had no wish to be cut off from the latest news on Zeno at such a sensitive moment, so she was determined to stretch things out at least until Irene had replied to her letter. She never doubted that Irene would reply, assuming that she could, nor that she would provide the information that Ali had requested. It was just a matter of time, but for Ali time was in shorter and shorter supply.

  As if on cue her CommsTab sprang to life, its screen filled with the rubicund face of her boss, the Chief Scientific Adviser. She touched the response icon and the frozen face came to life.

  “Ali, I know you’re busy but could you spare me a few moments?”

  Busy, Ali thought, you must be joking, and hiding her pleasure at being interrupted she replied, “Yes, of course. I’ll be along immediately.”

  Arriving in the Chief’s office, she found that he was not alone and his visitor stood to greet her with a smile.

  “You remember Douglas MacIntyre, Ali, from security?” her Chief asked.

  “Yes, of course. Hello Douglas, good to see you. Have we had a reply from Irene?”

  “Um, yes,” the Chief interjected before Douglas had a chance to respond. “But before you see it you’ll have to give me your word that you’ll keep its contents entirely confidential.”

  Although momentarily taken aback at this demand, Ali knew that she had little choice but to agree if she wanted to know what Irene had written. “Of course,” she said, “no problem.”

  Douglas handed her an official-looking red folder containing an already opened envelope addressed to her as well as several handwritten pages.

  “We’ve no reason to doubt it, but I assume that you can confirm that this is Professor Johnson’s handwriting?” Douglas asked.

  Concealing her irritation that a letter meant for her had already been opened and read by who knew how many others, she confirmed that it was indeed Irene’s writing. While the two men waited she read carefully through Irene’s account of the Zeno breach and of the subsequent decisions made by the English authorities.

  “How could they decide to keep this secret?” she demanded, appalled by what she saw as extraordinary bad faith on the part of the English government.

  “Like us, they’re probably worried about causing a panic,” the Chief replied, “and the fact that the virus is influenza, and not one of the truly horrific ones like smallpox or Ebola, has persuaded them that it can be contained.”

  “But it’s not just an ordinary influenza virus,” Ali pointed out, “it’s been engineered for virulence. And anyway, even if it was mild, there’s always the Zeno element to consider. It will mutate and keep mutating such that we won’t be able to keep up even if we can develop effective vaccines.”

  Douglas nodded. “Yes, I agree, Alison. In the longer run the Zeno factor is crucial. But there’s no point in making that public at this stage when nothing practical can be done. It would certainly cause unhelpful panic. What’s needed is time for research, time to develop some way of stopping it in its tracks.”

  Realising that, beyond a belief in the innate virtues of government transparency, she had no real answer to that argument, Ali turned to the Chief.

  “But something can surely be done to minimise the impact of the flu?” she asked.

  “Yes, the health people are going to issue a warning that there’s a new flu strain on the loose and they’re going to make all cases notifiable. They’ll do what they can to provide quarantine facilities and as soon as they have a sample of the virus to work with they’ll supply it to researchers. They’re making all sorts of contingency plans right now.”

  “And the researchers will know about the Zeno element?” Ali asked.

  “Only some of them,” the Chief replied, “it will depend on appropriate security clearances and so on. We’re not yet sure how many researchers we have who are competent in this area, but it’s bound to be fewer than they have in England.”

  Ali lapsed into silence, awed by the scale of the challenge facing them. The two men sat waiting for her. Finally she roused herself. “So we won’t be making public that the source of the virus was Porton Down?”

  “No,” said Douglas. “We see no purpose in alienating the English at this point. If anything, we need to collaborate with them, not publicly condemn them for their irresponsibility. We’ll make sure they understand that we know what happened so we’ll always have that card to play, but we won’t play it until it
’s unavoidable.”

  “So that’s it, Ali,” the Chief intervened in a tone that suggested their meeting was now over. “You’re up to date on developments and we really are very grateful for what you have done. Now I think you should take that holiday. In fact, I insist. Where are you going to go?”

  “I thought I might visit my dad in Argyll for a few days,” she said. “Walk the hills with the dog.”

  “That sounds excellent. Just the thing to take your mind off all these troubling matters. You do that. But please remember, everything we have said here today is absolutely confidential. Now off you go.”

  Although irritated at being spoken to as if she were an errant schoolgirl, Ali nodded goodbye to Douglas and returned to her desk.

  Once she was gone, the Chief turned to Douglas.

  “Do you think she’ll keep quiet?” he asked.

  Douglas thought for a moment.

  “Yes, I think so,” he said, “for now at least. We’ll be keeping an eye on her anyway. Unfortunate but necessary, I’m afraid.”

  As was his daily custom, the elderly man sat looking out of his fourth-floor apartment window. It was a fine vantage point and he could see across much of the Florida retirement community in which he lived, even as far as the golf course at its distant edge. Normally there was not a lot going on. A few people strolling in the almost constant sunshine, the occasional vehicle abiding by the rigorously enforced speed limit, colourfully dressed figures scattered across the bright green of the golf course. But today was different. On three separate occasions so far that morning the peace had been interrupted by the sound of sirens as ambulances sped to different parts of the complex. And now, most remarkably, streams of people were hastening towards the heart of the development where a building housed the administration, a few shops and restaurants, a gym, and the medical centre. Something’s happened, the man thought as he settled back into his chair to watch the show. I guess I’ll find out what it is soon enough.