Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  “We’re wet!” Tekano cried from his console.

  The team broke into applause. Several members hugged. Fontaine’s eyes welled up unexpectedly. He cleared the frog from his throat before staring directly into the camera that was still focused on him. “Our probe has just entered Lake Vishnov,” he said in a hushed voice. “Now we will begin to withdraw samples of the water.” He paused. “Let us hope they are as rich with life as we expect.”

  More applause.

  Georges Manet hoisted his empty hand in a pantomimed toast. “Maybe you should be careful what you wish for, Claude.”

  1

  Lac Noir, France. December 8, ten months later

  Philippe Manet’s eyes jerked around the room. Sometimes he saw a crucifix on the wall or a pole beside his bed, and at other times there were two of them, side by side or one on top of the other. He had no idea where he was. But that was nothing new. Philippe hadn’t known for weeks. He no longer recognized his mother or his sister. Sometimes he didn’t even respond to his own name when the nurses spoke to him.

  “The water it wills the way…,” Philippe began to say, but his words sputtered into a garble of nonsensical French.

  He was vaguely cognizant of his own incoherence. He was also aware of the shadowy figure of a woman standing by his bed. Or was it two women?

  “Georges knows, and Sylvie, too,” he said to her. “The water! It wills…”

  A smell drifted to Philippe, and he stopped trying to speak. Something pleasant, even comforting. His eyes swung back and forth over his own hand until he felt dizzy. A plume of smoke drifted above his fingers. A wisp of a memory. Then it was gone.

  A soft but cold hand gripped his fingers. The woman was nearer now. There was something familiar about her, but her presence conjured a contradictory sense of vulnerability and security. She spoke to him, but somewhere between his ears and his brain the words were lost. The woman was smiling. Or was she laughing at him? Philippe could not tell.

  Then he noticed the lit cigarette, or possibly two, between his trembling fingers. And that sight relaxed him as much as its welcome aroma. He wanted to bring it to his lips, but his hand wouldn’t cooperate. Exhausted and nauseated from the double vision, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back on the pillow.

  He began to drift off, but he was awakened by his own involuntary cough.

  The odor was far more intense now. Foreign. An incomprehensible sense of danger welled inside him. His hand felt hot.

  Philippe tried to focus on his fingers. The woman was nowhere to be seen—he had already forgotten her, anyway—but a flame flickered between his fingers. The pain engorged his hand. He jerked his arm away, but the searing discomfort had already spread to his back, buttocks, and thighs.

  The smoke was thicker, breathing harder. Philippe gagged on the acrid smell of burning flesh, not comprehending that it was his own skin on fire. But enough of his brain function endured to experience the agony. He searched frantically for the right words. Instead of a cry for help, other words tumbled from his lips: “The water wills…” His cough choked off the rest of it.

  He looked down and saw four legs engulfed in flames. The pain was immeasurable. With what little air he had left in his lungs, he unleashed a piercing scream.

  But the roaring fire consumed his dying shriek as efficiently as it had the curtains.

  2

  Geneva, Switzerland. January 14, five weeks later

  Dr. Noah Haldane bundled his jacket tighter, fighting off the biting chill. Not only was his internal clock upended, he still hadn’t adjusted to the dramatic climate change. With only a six-hour stop in Washington—to deliver his daughter, Chloe, to her mother, Anna—he had flown from the warm sunshine of Playa del Carmen in Mexico straight into a Swiss blizzard. And as he hurried along the street toward the World Health Organization’s sprawling headquarters, he still couldn’t figure out why he had come. Not that he didn’t understand the purpose of the meeting—he knew what the WHO wanted from him—but he didn’t know why he kept heeding their call.

  After the ARCS virus crisis—catastrophe might be a more apt description, Noah thought—he had sworn to leave the WHO behind him. Though others considered his dedication to the international health agency an act of medical altruism, Noah saw nothing selfless in it. On the contrary, like an alcoholic who keeps winding up with a bottle in his hand despite well-meaning promises to himself and loved ones, Noah couldn’t tear himself away from the challenge and rush he found at the front lines of infectious-disease outbreaks.

  As he rounded the corner and saw the massive blue WHO flag flapping violently in the wind, Noah was filled with the contradictory mix of anticipation and dread that these urgent meetings usually brought. Approaching the main building, which always reminded him of a giant waffle standing on its side, Noah dug in his pocket for his identification.

  The machine-gun-toting guards checked him through the security post out front. Inside the main foyer, he had to pass through a metal detector on his way to the elevator banks. Welcome to the new global village, Noah thought glumly, remembering previous visits when a simple ID badge and a nod to an unarmed guard would gain him access to any corner of the building.

  The click-clack of his black oxfords against the gleaming marble floors reminded him how he missed the comfort of walking barefoot on the white sand beaches of the Mexican resort. Far more than the sand and the sun, he missed Chloe. Their vacation had given them the chance to reconnect after the upheaval in both their lives. His daughter had yet to adjust to living separate lives with each of her parents, but the trip brought her a little more of the stability she needed.

  Those thoughts slipped from his mind when he turned the corner and saw Dr. Jean Nantal waiting outside his office. With bone-straight posture and silver hair, the WHO’s executive director of communicable diseases was dressed as impeccably as ever in a navy suit with a tastefully understated mauve tie. Jean had occupied the director’s sixth-floor office for more than twenty years, and had been with the WHO since the smallpox eradication program, but his long and distinguished face showed little evidence of his seventy years. The man was as legendary as the smallpox campaign he had spearheaded. And he was as charming as he was intelligent, which helped explain his staff’s singular devotion to him.

  As Noah approached Jean’s open arms, he reminded himself not to be taken in by the director’s infectious idealism and enthusiasm. All too often, Noah had found himself in nasty predicaments after buoyantly leaving other such meetings. Jean greeted him with a kiss to each cheek. “Noah! You look wonderful. It must be the tan.”

  Noah shook his head. “Jean, you make me nervous when the compliments start this soon.”

  “Have I become so obvious? Perhaps it is time to retire.” Jean laughed cheerfully. “How is little Chloe?”

  “Good. She and I just spent a fun week in Mexico together.”

  Jean nodded approvingly. “She’s already five, isn’t she?” Noah marveled at Jean’s ability to recall details of his team’s personal lives. “My youngest granddaughter, Antoinette, turned eleven yesterday!” He laughed again. “Perhaps it is time to retire.”

  “You never will.”

  Jean shrugged and then arched an eyebrow. “And Gwen?” he asked in a tone that suggested he was already aware of Noah’s romantic troubles.

  Gwen Savard, Noah’s girlfriend—ex-girlfriend, he reminded himself—was Homeland Security’s director of counterbioterrorism, or the Bug Czar, as he affectionately called her. Their paths first crossed during the ARCS crisis, when a terrorist group’s attempt to spread a Spanish Flu–like virus nearly ended in a full-blown pandemic. The intensity of their hazardous high-stakes work together spilled over into their personal lives. But despite their deep connection, neither had fully rebounded from recent divorces. That emotional baggage, combined with the oppositional pull of their demanding careers, made the relationship unsustainable.

  Noah suddenly had a mental image of Gw
en and those penetrating green eyes that could so easily melt his resolve. There was no denying how much he missed her. “She’s an amazing person.” He cleared his throat. “But with her work and my work…”

  Jean closed his eyes and nodded. The career-versus-family story must have echoed like a broken record within the walls of the WHO building.

  A voice boomed from within the office. “For the love of all that is holy, Jean! Are you coming back in, or did you finally stop talking about it and retire after all?”

  Hearing Duncan McLeod’s Scottish brogue, Noah broke into a grin. Jean shook his head good-naturedly as he gestured toward the door. “Best not to keep Duncan waiting.”

  They stepped inside the office. Aside from the antique oak desk and the four leather-backed chairs facing it, the room was austerely decorated with only a few landscape-style photographs of the African savanna and whales breaching in the Pacific. The only photo that included Jean was one that must have dated back at least twenty years and showed him standing beside a robust-looking Pope John Paul II. Noah knew that Jean could easily have wallpapered the room with photos of himself alongside famous dignitaries, but that was not the director’s style.

  Duncan McLeod sprang out of his chair to meet Noah. With his flaming red hair and cropped beard, Duncan looked tidier than the last time they had seen each other, but considering his untucked shirt, coffee-stained khakis, and lazy left eye, Noah would have been hard-pressed to describe his wiry friend as kempt. Noah noticed that Duncan had aged in the past seven months. Or maybe he was just tired.

  “Shite, look at you, Haldane,” the Scot bellowed. “Even tanned, you still look stiffer than that two-bit actor who played you in the TV movie.”

  Noah warmly shook Duncan’s outstretched hand. “Nobody played me in a movie.”

  “Didn’t you see that piece of crap movie-of-the-week?” Duncan scoffed. “Swashbuckling WHO doctor saves the world single-handedly. Can’t remember what they called him, Noel Maldane or some such tripe, but he was clearly supposed to be you!” He pointed a thumb to his chest. “Meanwhile old McLeod and the rest of the grunts were written right out of history.”

  Noah had seen the made-for-TV movie, or at least part of it. The producers had never interviewed him, and he was so irritated by the fabrications and the liberties they had taken with the real-life events that he switched it off halfway through in disgust. “I think they meant that character to be a composite of all of us,” he said.

  “A composite, huh?” Duncan scoffed. “Then they should have called him Donegal McLow and given him a decent bloody accent!”

  With an extended hand, Jean drew Noah’s attention to the woman in the chair beside Duncan’s. “Noah, allow me to introduce Elise Renard,” he said. “Ms. Renard is a special envoy with the E.U.’s Agricultural Commission.” Jean turned to Elise with an amused smile. “Clearly, Dr. Haldane’s movie-star reputation precedes him.”

  Noah stepped around Duncan and offered his hand to the young woman. “It’s Noah. And don’t listen to Jean. He’s all flattery when he wants something from us.”

  “Too true,” Duncan said. “He called me ‘invaluable’ before you showed up, which can only mean he plans to toss us out of a rocket without a parachute this time!”

  Elise Renard rose from her chair to meet Noah, almost reaching his six feet. Her chestnut brown hair was cut very short. Thirtyish, lean as she was tall, she had a light complexion that was scattered with freckles. With a delicate upturned nose and high cheekbones, her full lips were creased into a polite smile. Her large gray-blue eyes set off her face, but Noah sensed wariness behind those striking eyes. “It’s an honor to meet you, Noah.” She spoke with a light accent and her tone had a pleasing gravelly quality.

  “Renard? Is that French?”

  “Belgian.”

  “That’s something, at least,” Duncan grumbled. He turned to Jean, raising a stack of stapled papers from beside his chair. “No offense, but I was sick of the French even before I read this. Now—”

  “On that note…” Jean rolled his eyes good-naturedly, showing more patience with Duncan than Noah thought he deserved. “Maybe we can turn to the issue at hand.”

  Noah took the seat beside Elise as Jean walked around his desk and settled into the chair behind it. He slipped on his reading glasses and then lifted the pages off the desk. “No doubt you have all read the briefing prepared on this matter, but let me give you an update. Ms. Renard—”

  “Elise,” she corrected.

  “Mais, bien sûr,” Jean said with a wave. “Elise is joining us because of the animal cases. So far, in the central region of Limousin—the heart of French cattle farming—seven cows have tested positive in the past two months for bovine spongiform encephalitis, or BSE.”

  “Seven mad cows?” Duncan sat up straighter. “I thought we only had four in France!”

  “We only heard back from Paris this morning. The Institut Pasteur has confirmed three more positive tests.”

  Noah glanced at his sheet, considering the implication of the numbers. “Seven cases in two months? That’s as big a cluster of BSE cases as we have seen since the nineties.”

  “Especially when we consider they are localized to a forty-kilometer radius surrounding Limoges, the region’s capital.” Jean glanced at Elise. “The E.U. is understandably concerned about this BSE emergence. It creates great uncertainty in the cattle trade industry—”

  “Fucking marvelous! I’m delighted you’re so concerned,” Duncan turned on Elise angrily. “But where was the bloody E.U. when our cattle industry in Britain was being decimated by mad cow disease? All you did was slap an absolute moratorium on the export of British beef forever. France was the bloody worst offender of the lot in banning British beef.”

  Noah was about to intercede when he noticed Jean fold his hands together and lay them slowly on the desk. “Duncan, this is hardly the time or place for finger pointing,” he said in a hushed voice that silenced the Scot.

  Elise raised a hand. “Dr. McLeod has a point, Jean.” But her expression and tone lacked contrition. “We knew far less about BSE back then. We are determined not to repeat the same errors this time. Please don’t forget, Dr. McLeod, the number of cases in Limousin pales in comparison to the British epidemic of the mid-nineties.”

  “So far,” Duncan said quietly.

  Duncan’s words resonated with Noah. He looked over at Elise. “Though in this case we’re seeing the human equivalent, variant Creutzfeld-Jakob disease, far earlier than we did in the British epidemic.”

  “Exactement,” Jean said solemnly. “We know of three people who have contracted vCJD in the past three months.”

  Noah silently digested the news of the third case that wasn’t mentioned in the e-mail briefing he had received earlier. Somewhere in the recesses of his brain an alarm was quietly sounding.

  “Three?” Elise frowned at Jean. “There were over a hundred human cases in Britain.”

  “Ah, true.” Jean nodded. “But the incubation period was measured in years, decades even, not weeks.”

  “A rapid spread from animals to humans could spell catastrophe,” Noah murmured.

  Elise held up her palms, confused.

  “In England, it was five or ten years after the first case of BSE before we saw the equivalent, variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, in humans,” Noah explained. “But in this French outbreak, it seems to have happened almost simultaneously.”

  She nodded. “I understand. Pardon me for appearing foolish in the presence of doctors, but can you describe the difference between CJD and variant CJD to me?”

  Noah gave Duncan—who had remained uncharacteristically silent since his outburst—a pat on the shoulder. “Duncan’s the expert on mad cows.”

  “It’s true. Comes from years spent with the mother-in-law,” Duncan said, and Noah understood that the little joke and his crooked smile were meant as a peace offering to Elise. “Creutzfeldt-Jakob has been known…since, well, since those
two krauts, Creutzfeldt and Jakob, described it in the twenties,” Duncan continued. “An exceedingly nasty disease, it mainly affects older people. Average age of onset is over sixty. Fortunately it’s very rare.”

  “How rare?” Elise asked.

  “About one in a million,” Duncan said. “Though developing it is like losing the lottery. The bugger strikes hard and quickly. In under a year, it will turn a healthy person completely demented and wheelchair bound. Like full-blown Alzheimer’s almost overnight. At autopsy, the poor sods’ brains are so moth-eaten that the pathologists use the term ‘spongiform’—Latin for spongelike—to describe them.” He sighed. “But the garden variety CJD is not really considered an infectious disease.”

  “Unlike variant CJD,” Elise said. She ran her hand through her short hair, as though she forgot there was nothing to sweep back.

  “Exactly,” Noah spoke up. “Variant CJD was discovered only in the mid-nineties. And though the end result is the same as for CJD—namely, death—variant CJD has quite a different course.”

  “Different how?” she asked.

  “To begin with, the disease affects much younger people,” Duncan said, slipping naturally into the tone of an enthusiastic teacher. “Average age of onset is around thirty. Also, victims show fewer signs of dementia and far more symptoms of psychiatric illness: delusion, hallucinations, and so forth. Similar to schizophrenia.” He paused. “And variant CJD is invariably associated with outbreaks of mad cow disease. In fact, it occurs only in people who have eaten beef from infected cattle.”

  “The prion,” Elise said in a near whisper.

  Duncan whistled. “The little bastard is one of the great mysteries of the infectious-diseases world. Big-time evil in a wee little package. So small, it makes a virus look massive in comparison.”

  Noah nodded. “And the most bizarre part is that unlike other infections—bacterial, parasitical, and even viral—prions are not alive by any definition. They are simply rogue proteins that somehow sabotage normal functioning brain cells.”