Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  “That you manage to keep the most overpriced tailors in Paris in business,” Valmont said, thumbing at Cabot’s expensive-looking olive green suit.

  The inspector ignored Valmont’s gibe. Instead, he withdrew a neatly folded piece of paper from an inner pocket. He unfolded the note meticulously. “A farmer called this afternoon to report his wife missing.”

  Avril frowned. “Another missing person?”

  “Hang on.” Valmont cleared his throat noisily again. “You still don’t know that the Lamaire case is much more than a wild-goose chase.”

  Avril folded her arms across her chest and turned to her boss. “Who is this farmer, Esmond?”

  “André Pereau. The wife is Yvette Pereau.”

  The names meant nothing to her. “And what makes Pereau think his wife is missing?” she asked.

  Cabot ran a finger over the paper’s crease as if trying to flatten out the imperfection. “She has been gone almost a week without any contact.”

  Avril sat up straighter. “A week? Why did he wait so long to report it?”

  “Pereau originally thought his wife had left him,” Cabot said emotionlessly. “Apparently, it has happened before. He admits he has a problem with the wine.”

  “So what’s different now?” Valmont sighed.

  “Allegedly, Yvette is very close to her parents,” Cabot said. “She had always gone to them before. But according to his in-laws, they have not seen or heard from their daughter since she left.”

  “Where do the Pereaus live?” Avril asked.

  “A farm just outside of Terrebonne.”

  Avril tensed slightly in her chair, as she realized Terrebonne was a neighboring town to Montmagnon, no more than fifteen kilometers east. Two missing women in a region as small and remote as Limousin, she thought. Could there be a serial killer on the loose?

  The same growling sound came from deep within Valmont’s throat again. “I bet the wife didn’t want her drunk of a husband serenading her in front of Papa and Maman and the whole neighborhood, so she persuaded them to cover for her.”

  “Still betting, are we, Simon?” Cabot asked with a hint of accusation.

  “Only on the sure things, Inspector,” Valmont said defiantly.

  Cabot gently fingered the edges of his moustache. “Simon is probably right,” he said with patent lack of interest. “Will you have a quick look into this, Avril?”

  “She already has a phantom missing persons case,” Valmont said. “Only fair that I handle this one.”

  Avril looked from Cabot to Valmont. “I am going to be in the area on the Lamaire case anyway. I might as well look into both.”

  Valmont shrugged in defeat. “If you have the time to burn….”

  “I have nothing but time,” she said with a smile, though she already had an unsettling sense that her time would not be wasted at all.

  13

  Paris, France. January 17

  Noah, Duncan, and Elise arrived at the Gare d’Austerlitz minutes before four P.M. Stepping out of the train station into the hazy warmth of the Left Bank, Noah felt as if spring had arrived in the less than three hours since they had left Limoges. As he tucked his new gloves (which he bought at the Limoges train station to replace the pair he had left at Ferme d’Allaire) into his pocket, he even considered shedding his coat.

  They began to walk the five blocks southwest of the station to the Salpêtrière Hospital, Paris’s world-class neurology research center. Noah had been there once before, so when he felt his cell phone vibrate in his front pocket, he told the others: “Go ahead. I’ll catch up with you.”

  He brought the phone to his ear. “Noah Haldane.”

  “Hello, Noah.”

  “Gwen?” Noah smiled automatically as his heart sped up. “Hi.”

  Elise stopped and viewed him with curiosity. Duncan gently tugged at her elbow, and she turned slowly to walk away with him. Noah moved off the sidewalk and shielded his ear from the traffic noise.

  “You’re in France, aren’t you?” Gwen said.

  “Did Jean tell you?”

  “No, I just assumed when I saw the e-mail news alert this morning.”

  As the director of counterbioterrorism for the Department of Homeland Security, Gwen received daily, sometimes hourly, electronic alerts from the CDC and the WHO regarding infectious “hot spots” all over the planet. “They put out an alert about the mad cows, huh?” he said.

  She chuckled. “Soon as I heard the WHO was involved, I knew that meant Duncan and you had to be in the thick of it.”

  Noah warmed at the sound of her soft laugh. “Duncan calls us ‘the world’s two strongest shite magnets,’” he said with a feigned Scottish brogue.

  “Hey, that’s not bad.”

  Noah didn’t know if Gwen was referring to the impersonation or the comment, nor did he care. He enjoyed the affection in her tone.

  “How is that demented redhead?” Gwen asked.

  “Duncan is Duncan.” He considered the remark. “Actually, he’s not. Something isn’t right with him.”

  “What’s up?” she asked with concern.

  “I’m not entirely sure. He’s upset about this whole BSE situation. He was burned before during the British outbreak, and he thinks the E.U. is meddling again. But…” Noah sighed. “It’s more than that. Something is going on, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. And you know Duncan, he hides his emotions behind wisecracks and irreverence.”

  “Everything okay at home?”

  “Mine or Duncan’s?”

  “I meant…um…Duncan’s.”

  “He hasn’t said otherwise, but then again he hasn’t said much of anything.”

  “You’re one of his best friends, Noah. He’ll tell you when he’s ready. But since you brought it up, how are things at your home?”

  “I’m a long way from home.” he said ruefully. “Chloe and I did have a great trip to Mexico. Good for both of us. And Gwen, she’s swimming on her own now.”

  She laughed softly. “I bet she’s more adorable than ever.”

  Noah could picture Gwen’s smile, green eyes aflame and lips parted widely. At forty-two, she had no children of her own. And while always respectful of boundaries, she had become fast friends with Chloe. He still felt guilty for having introduced Chloe to Gwen, only to sever the ties months later. His daughter seemed to take Gwen’s absence in stride, but Noah resolved in the future to keep his dating life separate from his family, until and unless he made a permanent commitment.

  “How are things with you?” he asked.

  “Busy. Usual government stuff,” she said, sounding evasive.

  The awkwardness of their last few months together drifted back to Noah: each of them competing to out-excuse and apologize to the other for missed dates and canceled get-togethers. In the month preceding their mutually agreed hiatus, they had managed to see each other only twice—once for a hurried dinner between meetings, and once for late-night lovemaking after Noah picked her up at the airport returning from yet another overseas trip (possibly Lisbon, though he couldn’t remember). They still connected emotionally and physically, but both came to realize that life as the American Bug Czar and the WHO’s expert on emerging pathogens, respectively, was not compatible with building much more than a business relationship.

  Gwen’s tone turned professional. “Noah, how serious is this French situation?”

  “It’s too soon to say,” he said, matching her earlier evasiveness. “The good news is that terrorists would have a tough time weaponizing mad cow disease.”

  “You know that wasn’t my concern, Noah,” she said with slight irritation.

  “Yeah.” Accustomed to shielding sensitive information, he wavered a moment out of habit. But he knew she would have full clearance for this information, and besides, there was no one he would rather run the situation past. Appreciating that they were speaking on a secure mobile line, he decided to fill her in. “This is different from any previous BSE outbreak.” He went on
to describe what they had learned in the last forty-eight hours and then added, “What happened to those people in a few short weeks…” He exhaled slowly. “Gwen, if this thing gets loose and erupts as quickly as it did in the first weeks, we could be talking about another global crisis.”

  She absorbed it all without comment. He imagined her biting her lower lip and squinting the way she always did when deep in concentration. “Well?” he asked, impatient for her impression.

  “Do you think this entire outbreak traces back to that one cattle supplier?”

  “It would appear so.”

  “Appear?”

  “I don’t know,” Noah said, riled by the same vague unease he’d repeatedly experienced since returning to Europe. “At least six of the seven infected cows come from this farm. And it’s very possible that they’re recycling animal meat in the feed,” he said, trying to rationalize away his doubt.

  “What is it, Noah?” Gwen pushed.

  Noah hesitated. “It’s odd that none of their cows showed any indication of illness while still on their property.”

  “Maybe somebody on that farm was trying to cover it up?”

  Cover-up. The term struck a chord in him. “I don’t know if this has to do with Ferme d’Allaire or someplace else, but my gut tells me that we haven’t seen the whole story in Limousin yet.”

  “Stick with it, Noah. Seems to me you have a pretty wise gut.”

  He laughed halfheartedly. “We’ll see what shows up in that cattle feed.”

  She was quiet a moment. “This prion is going to keep you over there for a while, huh?”

  “I think so.”

  “And with the ban on all French beef exports…”

  Noah clicked his tongue. “I can already feel the frying pan heating up under me, but I’ve been in worse places. And frankly, beef sales are the least of my concern.”

  “Look, Noah, if I can do anything to help…”

  He smiled. “Thanks. I might well take you up on that offer down the road.”

  “You know where to find me.”

  “At the very least, as soon as I get home we should go grab a coffee or a bite and catch up.”

  “Sure. Let’s do that sometime.” Her tone matched the perfunctory quality of his offer.

  Suddenly self-conscious, they bade each other a hasty good-bye that was stiffer than their greeting.

  Slightly melancholic, Noah slipped the phone back into his pocket and hurried down Boulevard de l’Hôpital. As he neared the sprawling Salpêtrière Hospital complex, he tried to fight back the feelings her voice had stirred. As impractical as their relationship was, he realized that he missed her more than ever.

  Approaching the main entrance, he distracted himself by studying the classical seventeenth-century gray stone edifice and recalling what he had been told of its important historical significance on his last visit. Neurology was born as a specialty within the walls of this hospital. And his own specialty of infectious diseases came into being only a few miles away in the catacombs of the Institut Pasteur.

  Inside the hospital’s bustling foyer, the familiar medical attire, smells, and palpable hospital hum helped to ground Noah. Weaving his way down the long hallways, he followed the signs to the neuropathology department. At the department’s reception desk, he introduced himself to a young woman with blue-tinted hair and a nose ring. Unenthusiastically, she rose from her seat and led Noah to Dr. Émilie Gellier’s office.

  Duncan and Elise were already seated across the desk from Gellier. At the sight of Noah, the petite gray-haired woman leaped from her seat and rushed toward him. Noah doubted that she reached five feet, and her slightly stooped posture and long lab coat made her look even shorter. Though her face was etched with deep lines, her bright hazel eyes possessed a youthfulness that matched her enthusiasm. She pumped his hand. “Bienvenue, Dr. Haldane!” she gushed. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

  “Likewise, Dr. Gellier.”

  She waved away his compliment with a tiny hand. “Come. Sit. Please join us.”

  “Haldane, I had no idea you caught a later train than us,” Duncan groaned.

  Ignoring the barb, Noah sat down beside Elise, who viewed him coolly. He sensed her reaction had nothing to do with his tardiness.

  Gellier smiled warmly. “I was just telling your colleagues that I know Louis Charron from our days in training together. He is a brilliant clinician.”

  “If not the cheeriest,” Duncan said.

  “He can be quite the curmudgeon.” Gellier laughed. “Do not fall for his act. Deep down he is a softie. And his wife, Clarice, is absolutely delightful. She adores him.”

  Elise shifted in her seat. “Dr. Gellier, can we discuss the autopsies—”

  Gellier raised a hand to interrupt. “I do not perform autopsies, Mlle. Renard.”

  “Of course. I meant, can we discuss your findings on the patients’ brains.”

  “We can do better than that,” she said, hopping out of her seat again with surprising spryness. She hurried out through an open door that connected her office to a laboratory. After a moment of uncertainty, the others followed.

  The room was a decent size but crowded with microscopes, equipment, computers, and specimens. Noah had never seen so many brains. The full length of the far side of the room was stacked with shelf upon shelf of glass jars holding brains floating in formaldehyde.

  “Is Dr. Frankenstein aware that his warehouse has been relocated?” Duncan said, surveying the wall.

  “It’s a wonderful collection,” Gellier said proudly. She waved a hand over the wall. “We have specimens over a hundred years old. Neurosyphilis, cerebral tuberculosis, even some smallpox cerebritis. There is not a neurological disorder that I know of missing from our collection.”

  “And the vCJD patients from Limousin?” Noah asked.

  “Ah, oui. Come and see.” Gellier turned from the wall and headed to one of the computers perched on a desk against the opposite wall. She sat down in front of a computer screen that showed a grainy black-and-white photo of a man with long sideburns and a waistcoat standing in what looked like a nineteenth-century ward. Gellier tapped the screen. “Jean-Martin Charcot,” she said reverentially. “The father of modern neurology. And he worked right here on this very floor a hundred fifty years before me.”

  “I wonder if old Charcot freelanced for Jean Nantal, too?” Duncan said mischievously.

  Giggling at the reference to the WHO director, Gellier typed in a password and the screen saver gave way to a blue backdrop covered with numerous computer icons. With a click of the mouse, the monitor filled with a schematic diagram of a large spiral molecule that Noah recognized as a protein.

  “These are normal prions. Complex proteins, prominent in brain tissue.” Gellier turned to Elise. “And, yes, all brains do normally contain prions. Notice the helix shape.” She clicked a button and suddenly the molecule collapsed into rows of sheets. “This is a pathological prion. For unknown reasons, the normal alphahelical protein is reshaped into this structure that we call beta-pleated sheets.”

  None of this was news to Noah, but he let Gellier explain for Elise’s benefit as his eyes drifted to the specimens lining the wall. He spotted placards that read as early as 1904.

  “Now, here is the amazing quality of pathological prions,” Gellier went on, waving her hands excitedly. “Though not alive in any way, somehow they…what is the word?…coerce normal prions in brain cells to mimic their shape.”

  “You mean they turn normal prions into replicas of themselves?” Elise asked.

  “Exactly!” Gellier almost hopped out of her chair. “One pathological prion converts a normal prion into its same shape. Now you have two abnormal prions that convert two normal prions into the pathological form. And so on.”

  Gellier clicked her mouse and a cell appeared on the screen. “This is a brain cell, a neuron,” she explained. As always, it reminded Noah of a daisy with its central body and stemlike axon. “As the abnormal p
roteins multiply inside the neuron, they begin to crystallize out and accumulate, causing the cell to swell.” Gellier tapped her mouse. On the screen, the inside of the neuron shimmered like a shaken snow globe. Then the cell grew in girth. When it reached the size of a distended balloon, it burst, showering fragments across the screen. Gellier circled the screen with a small finger. “This cell is dead. And now all these pathological proteins can go on to infect the next neuron.”

  “And so on,” Duncan said ominously.

  “Dr. Gellier, the cases in Limousin,” Noah said. “Are you certain they had the same form of vCJD?”

  Instead of replying, Gellier typed at her computer for a few moments. The figure on the screen split into two; each looked like the mirror image of the other. Noah recognized the two specimens as cross-sections of midbrain tissue. “I personally dissected four of the six cases of vCJD reported in France in the nineties,” Gellier said without a trace of conceit. “And I examined all three cases from Limousin.” She tapped at the screen. “The brain tissue on the left comes from a vCJD victim who died in Paris in 1998. And on the right, we have the brain of Giselle Tremblay from Limousin. As you can see, they are identical.”

  Noah looked from one to the other. The butterfly-wing-shaped midbrains were interchangeable, both of them equally chewed up with cracks, fissures, and gaping holes.

  “But it’s more than just the microscopic findings. The levels of fourteen-three-three protein in the brain tissues were the same between the two groups. And both tested positive for PrPres.”

  “I know that fourteen-three-three protein is used to screen for vCJD,” Elise said. “But what is PrPres?”

  “PrPres is a DNA marker for the cellular presence of the rogue BSE prions,” Gellier explained. “It is like a fingerprint that they leave behind on damaged cells. It has been positive in all known cases of vCJD. And it is positive in all three of the Limousin victims.”