Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  Fontaine hustled toward it. He reached the plane just as the door popped up and three steps flipped down. In a puffy coat that made him look comically oversized, one of Radvogin’s brawny bodyguards—Viktor, Fontaine guessed—pounded down the steps. The colossus locked his impassive brown eyes on Fontaine. Then he held DeGroot’s gaze for a moment, before his eyes did a quick scan of the barren surroundings. Assured there were no imminent threats, he stood to the side and turned back to face the plane.

  Wearing a long sable coat and hat, Yulia Radvogin glided down the steps and onto the ice. The pilot and the other bodyguard, his arms laden with luggage, followed after. Radvogin greeted Fontaine and DeGroot with kisses to each of their cheeks. Stepping back from her, Fontaine noticed something different about the woman. Awe danced in her pale eyes. “Now I have been everywhere,” she said.

  “Welcome, Yulia.” Fontaine pointed in the direction of the settlement that housed all Vishnov’s inhabitants. The “village” of matching white aluminum huts that resembled a high-end trailer park was a vast upgrade from the hodgepodge of decrepit relics from the Soviet era that used to occupy the site. “As I warned you, this is not exactly the Four Seasons, but may I show you to your lodgings?”

  Radvogin’s familiar authoritative expression replaced the look of wonderment. “I did not travel this far for shopping and a manicure,” she snapped. “Show me to the Igloo.”

  “It’s quite something, Yulia,” DeGroot said, showing an enthusiasm for it that she had never shared with Fontaine.

  “Lead the way, darling.” Walking past Fontaine, Radvogin locked arms with DeGroot as they headed east toward the domed structure.

  Fontaine followed a few steps behind the women, humiliated at his lesser place in the pack. Despite their first awkward meeting in St. Petersburg, Yulia had taken a shine to Martine, and it seemed that she could do no wrong. Fontaine bore the brunt of the woman’s impatience and frustration, while most of the credit for the venture fell to DeGroot. He forced the bitter thoughts from his mind. Think of the money, he reminded himself.

  With the two women chatting like old friends, they crossed the equivalent of two football fields to the dome. Built several hundred meters from the rest of the settlement, the dome was once the only sight that broke the landscape of ice looking eastward from the runway. However, with each week, more vehicles—from snowmobiles and Caterpillar loaders to huge pickups and ultramodern snow trucks—surrounded the Igloo. The area outside the dome now looked like a snow-covered shopping mall parking lot, except all the parked vehicles possessed tracks in place of wheels.

  Radvogin stopped a few feet before the Igloo’s entry, and the others came to a halt beside her. Despite the cold, she slowly surveyed the scene, first studying the trucks parked around it and then focusing on the structure. She stepped closer to the rounded wall and ran her glove over its smooth surface, as if checking for cracks or flaws. Finally, she backtracked a few steps and nodded once with satisfaction. Without a word, she turned and headed for the entry.

  Fontaine pulled his key card from under his jacket and waved it over the sensor. The white steel doors parted. They walked inside the research-station-cum-factory, where they were greeted by the hum of activity. Fontaine offered up his most charming smile. “Yulia, welcome to Radvogin Industries’ southernmost plant.”

  Radvogin didn’t reply. Her eyes scoured the room, skipping from the banks of computers to the people, circling and finally resting on the oil-rig-like platform in the center of the well that drew eyes like metal to a magnet.

  Fontaine pointed to the platform. “And that is your well.”

  She flashed him an indecipherable look. “The most expensive well ever built.”

  “The most lucrative, too,” DeGroot pointed out.

  “Let us hope so, Martine,” Radvogin said with slight menace. She turned to Fontaine. “Walk me through the production process again.”

  “Please.” Fontaine pointed ahead. Radvogin strode across the ice floor toward the platform, and the others followed. Since the original scientists and engineers had all been cleared from the site, Fontaine had not even bothered to learn the names of the technicians who replaced them. In their matching blue uniforms, the men around the platform looked interchangeable to him. And he preferred it that way. Fontaine didn’t need another group of prima donnas threatening his prosperity.

  He walked up the six steps leading to the winch and waited for Radvogin and DeGroot to join him on the platform. He ran a hand over the smooth cylinder that was wound with black cable as wide as an air duct, giving it the appearance of a giant spool.

  “This is the original cabling we used to tap Lake Vishnov. It’s still functional,” he said with a hint of pride. He turned to the even thicker gray plastic pipe that emerged from the landing and ran down the other side of the platform and along the ice to a tank against the far wall that was the size of a mobile home. Beside the tank, the wall was lined with shiny metallic barrels that resembled futuristic oil drums. He ran his boot across the top of the pipe. “We had this low-temperature flexible piping especially designed for our purposes.” He pointed to the tank. “With a water pressure of five hundred psi, we can refill our main tank in half an hour.”

  Radvogin stared at the piping by her feet, unimpressed. “I remember signing the check,” she said. “I understand how a well works. What is not so obvious to me is how we get the water off this continent.”

  Remember the money! Fontaine mustered another smile. “Let me show you.” He crossed the platform and took the far set of steps down to the ice floor. He followed the gray piping to the tank. The others joined him in front of it. He knocked on the side of the tank and it echoed slightly in response. Then he moved to the containers lined up beside it. He lifted one off the ground with one hand. “These drums weigh nothing empty, but when full they hold two hundred liters.” He dropped it to the ground with a light thud. “Our LC-130 Hercules transport planes can fly sixty of these barrels at a time to the coast.”

  “Twelve thousand liters,” Radvogin calculated aloud.

  DeGroot nodded. “With a fleet of four planes, we can load a cargo ship in three days of sorties.”

  “But not year round, Martine,” Radvogin said.

  “That is true,” Fontaine said. “For decent weather and safe shipping, our window of opportunity is from mid-November to mid-March.”

  Radvogin squinted hard at him. “So the window is rapidly closing this year.”

  “We still have two months,” Fontaine said. “The transports will begin in two days, and we will dispatch our first ship by the end of the week.”

  The muscles around Radvogin’s eyes relaxed. “But the transport costs alone—”

  Fontaine dismissed the concern with a wave of his palm. “Are well factored into the price of a bottle of the Lake.”

  “Providing people are willing to pay more for the Lake than they would for a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape,” Radvogin challenged.

  “They will! More and more restaurants are selling designer-label waters as if they were varieties of fine wine.” DeGroot’s glacial eyes lit with excitement. “Yulia, this is the purest drinking water any person has ever sampled. Millions of years old, it has been completely spared from all of man’s pollution. That is not true of another drop of water on the planet.”

  Radvogin turned to her. “And you’re convinced people will pay so much for the privilege of drinking it?”

  DeGroot laughed. “Yulia, from San Francisco to Tokyo, and every city in between, they will be climbing over each other to get bottles of this.”

  Fontaine’s bitterness toward DeGroot dissipated. He remembered again why she made such a useful partner. “Martine is right,” he said. “And imagine the hysteria when word gets out about the restorative powers of the water.”

  Radvogin ran her fingers across her cheek. “You honestly believe those stories?”

  “Believe it?” Fontaine held up his arms. “I’ve seen it myself. P
eople with chronic pain that didn’t respond to any medication are suddenly pain-free after drinking water from Vishnov.”

  “How do you, as a scientist, possibly explain water with healing powers?” Radvogin demanded.

  Fontaine shrugged. “I’ve reviewed the chemical analyses. Vishnov is hypermineralized with a unique cocktail of sulfur, chloride, carbonates, calcium, iron, magnesium, and various organic acids.”

  DeGroot put a hand on Radvogin’s shoulder. “It works, Yulia.”

  Radvogin smiled at the other woman. “So you two have found the fountain of youth at the South Pole?” Her eyes hinted at mockery. “The only fountain I trust in is the one at my plastic surgeon’s clinic.”

  “Not necessarily the fountain of youth.” DeGroot removed her hand from the other woman’s shoulder. “More like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  “Let’s hope you’re right,” Radvogin said. “And you’re certain the water is safe?”

  Fontaine nodded. “We have tested the water exhaustively. From chemical content to acidity, the water is pristine.”

  “What about those organisms you found in the lake?” Radvogin asked.

  “Arcobacter antarcticus?” Fontaine blew out his cheeks. “They are utterly harmless, but even if they weren’t it would not matter.”

  “Oh?” said Radvogin.

  “They can survive only under enormous water pressure. Those cells explode long before they reach anywhere close to atmospheric pressure.”

  “Still, we are taking no chances,” DeGroot added. “We will treat the water with heat and ultraviolet sterilization prior to bottling.”

  “Good,” Radvogin grunted. “Believe me, you don’t want a lawsuit on my hands.”

  Fontaine glanced at DeGroot with his first genuine smile of the day. “I am a little thirsty now.” He reached behind one of the drums and pulled out a small clear plastic drinking bottle that had no label. He offered the bottle to Radvogin, but she shook her head. He held it out to DeGroot, brushing it up against her chin.

  She pulled her head away and brought her hand up to his. She gave the back of his hand a fleeting squeeze, sending a shock wave of arousal through him, and then gently pushed his hand and the bottle away. “I can’t afford the sticker price.” She smiled.

  Fontaine shrugged and then toasted each of them with the bottle. “Your health,” he said. He brought the bottle slowly to his lips and took a long sip. After weeks of drinking Vishnov’s water, its crisp, subtly metallic flavor—different from any water he’d ever tasted—was growing on him.

  17

  Paris, France. January 18

  Noah woke to hammering in his forehead and queasiness in his stomach. A bitter acidic taste filled his mouth. Only fleeting images from the previous evening spent with Duncan drifted back to him. Reminiscences of Maggie had kept them planted in the bar, and soon Noah’s empty beer bottles gave way to full glasses of single malt scotch. He had no recollection of how or when he stumbled back to his room. He could not imagine what shape Duncan, who must have outdrunk him two to one, must have been in.

  Noah had met Maggie only a handful of times, but he had felt connected to her from their first encounter over lunch at Jean Nantal’s home. Quieter and more diplomatic than her husband, Maggie was still as perceptive, strong-willed, and funny. She was the epitome of robust with a pleasant round face and kind hazel eyes. Noah could not imagine her riddled with cancer. His heart went out to Maggie and Duncan. He wondered how his friend would cope if his wife died. Their bond was unbreakable. Of course, Noah had once thought the same of his marriage, too, but even before Julie arrived to complicate their situation, he recognized that he and Anna were on shaky ground.

  With his easygoing charm, blue eyes, and quick smile, Noah had attracted women effortlessly, but before Anna, all his girlfriends were his age and shared his interests. In college he dated women in his undergrad sciences program, and from med school on he dated fellow doctors in training. Then, in the senior year of his infectious-diseases residency, he met Anna at a party. She shattered the mold. Six years younger than he, she was an artistic, free-spirited master’s student in English literature. Their relationship was more volatile and sexually charged than any he had known previously. Only after Chloe was born did they settle into a more predictable routine. Noah was the one who pulled away first, toppling into a dark funk that even he didn’t understand. Anna had fought to keep him close, but his remoteness and frequent travel had worn her down. Eventually, his wife—who had never hidden her self-described sexual confusion—fell for their neighbor Julie, whom Noah still suspected of actively pursuing Anna during their marital crisis.

  Looking back, the evolution of their relationship from lovers and spouses to co-parents and friends now seemed natural to him. He had the urge to call Anna and share Duncan’s heart-wrenching news, but glancing at the bedside alarm clock, which read 7:04 A.M., he realized it was still the middle of the night in South Carolina.

  He sat up on the side of the bed, and the pressure on top of his head increased. Swallowing back bile, he rose to his feet and headed for the shower. By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, the message indicator light on his phone was flashing. He pressed the button to retrieve messages and soon heard Elise’s soft accent on the line: “Noah, I’m going downstairs now for breakfast. Duncan and you are welcome to join me if you would like to.” He detected a hint of shyness to the request.

  Noah dialed Duncan’s room, but there was no answer. He called the front desk and was told that Dr. McLeod had checked out an hour earlier. He wondered if his friend had caught a wink of sleep between the bar and his departure.

  Elise was studying the menu when Noah reached her table in the corner of the dining room. Her short hair was clipped to the side, and Noah noticed that her eye shadow and lipstick were more generously applied than he had previously seen. While it gave her face a more sophisticated and sexy touch, Noah preferred what he had seen before: the scattering of freckles on top of her milk-and-honey complexion. He wondered if the added makeup was attributable to their impending meeting with her boss.

  They exchanged polite but subdued greetings. As he slipped into the chair beside hers, she asked, “Will Duncan be joining us?”

  Noah shook his head. “He had to go home urgently.”

  She tilted her head. “Is everything all right?”

  He hesitated, remembering what Duncan had told him of his wife’s desire for privacy. Realizing it wouldn’t matter what he told Elise, he chose to respect Maggie’s wishes anyway. “A family issue. He’s gone home to sort it out.”

  Clearly dissatisfied with his explanation, Elise turned back to the menu. “You like crêpes, don’t you?” she asked.

  “Normally.” Regardless of his cholesterol issues, with hangover in full flight, he wasn’t tempted. “Not this morning.”

  She lowered the menu to chest height. A smile cracked her lips. “You look a little bit…worse for the wear…, is that the expression?”

  “Yes, and I do.” Noah smiled. “Duncan and I got into a heavy conversation at the bar. Not the smartest place to start one of those.”

  Elise put her menu down. “Were you discussing this BSE outbreak?”

  Noah shook his head. “Family.”

  Her smile brightened again. “Ah, yes, family. Those conversations often lead to drink, oui?”

  “Oui,” Noah sighed. “Speaking of which, I don’t know anything about your family.”

  “There is little to tell,” she said matter-of-factly. “I grew up in Brussels. My mother and father both work for the Bank of Belgium. A very boring middle-class upbringing.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?”

  “A sister, two years younger than me.” She sighed. “Hélène is the smart one. She married a very rich man. But I win, too. She has given me two adorable nephews.”

  “You’re not married, are you?”

  She shook her head and her cheeks flushed slightly. “I have…” He
r words trailed away and her eyes fell to the table.

  Noah moved to safer ground. “And why the E.U.?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Why did you choose to work for the European Union?”

  “Ah.” The embarrassment left her features. “I studied biology and animal sciences at university. I was even considering a faculty position, when a friend told me about a job opportunity with the E.U. in the Agricultural Commission. I was attracted to the mix of science and politics.”

  “An explosive mix,” Noah said. “Do you enjoy it?”

  She licked her lips, considering the question. “You mean now or before this BSE crisis?”

  “Either.”

  “Yes,” she said. “This is a stressful time, but it is also the biggest challenge of my career.”

  “The most trying assignments in my job have usually turned out to be the most rewarding.”

  She smiled and showed him another glimpse of shyness. “Noah, would you mind if I asked a question about your life?”

  “No time, sorry.” Noah winked as the waitress arrived at their table.

  Elise ordered a vegetarian omelet, while Noah opted for only a cup of coffee. After the waitress left, Elise leaned forward in her seat. “Do you have a photograph of Chloe?”

  Noah was happy to dig one out of his wallet. In the two hours he had spent in his condo between Mexico and Europe, while scrambling to pack and answer a slew of e-mails, he had printed a wallet-sized shot of Chloe from their trip together.

  Elise took the snapshot from his hand. She nodded approvingly as she glanced from the photo to Noah. “I see the resemblance…except the hair.”

  Noah laughed. “On our flight down, all Chloe talked about was getting her hair done in cornrows. We had barely touched down, and she found a woman at the hotel to braid it. Far as I know, she’s still wearing them.”

  “She is lovely,” Elise said, passing the photo back to Noah.