"First, and most alarming, is the number of patients on ventilators or receiving the spirometry tests," Rivera said. "People with this syndrome are having trouble breathing or need machines to breathe for them."
"Add in the fact they have a lot of muscle weakness," Stoker interjected. "They have some upper-body strength, but their lower bodies are compromised to the point they can't walk."
"Throw in the difficulty swallowing, and I can think of quite a few conditions and diseases that fit these patients' profiles so far," Rivera said. "We're both leaning toward a neurological diagnosis, because of the nerve conductions studies. The fact that the hospital staff is treating it as if it is contagious helps us rule out quite of few of those, however."
"Yes, I thought I had it figured out," Stoker said. "I’m curious how it spreads and how contagious it could be. We need more data."
"That's okay," Rivera said. "Let’s get our hands on the lab results and medical records. It would help if we could perform physical examinations, but I think that would blow your cover, Señor Paul, the lawyer."
"I'm starting to feel better," Stoker said. "It's time for me to get up and walk around. A rehabilitation walk—say down to the lab and back—would be the perfect therapy."
Rivera's eyes filled with mischief. "You know how I love snooping," he whispered. "While a hospital lab is not the greatest reconnaissance challenge, I'll take my undercover rush wherever I can get it."
Stoker started to stand up, but Rivera put his hand on Stoker's shoulder and sat him back down. "Not so fast there, amigo. Remember, you're supposed to be injured and afflicted."
Slower on the second attempt to stand, Stoker pushed himself to the edge of the bed, and rose to his feet. He tried to contort his face a little and make it look like standing was painful. "How's that for frail?"
"Much better," Rivera replied. "Thanks for acting the part of a sick man. Just make sure to look downward as we walk through the halls. Your eyes are so excited and animated, anyone who makes eye contact with you will sense your enthusiasm. You'll give us away and get us busted on a simple lab infiltration."
"The surgical mask will hide my evil grin," Stoker said. "I'll work on toning down the intensity in my eyeballs."
CHAPTER 9
Chihuahua, Mexico
Breaking into the hospital lab was a simple matter. Stoker and Rivera found a janitor who wanted to make fifty dollars. Learning their way around this lab was also easy. Stoker and Rivera had memorized the names of many patients they suspected of suffering from the mystery they dubbed non-running man syndrome. They found the lab reports among the paper records, and Rivera navigated the Spanish. "Look at these results. This patient, Mr. Flores, had a spinal tap. And, there's evidence of elevated protein in his cerebral-spinal fluid. But, there's not a substantial increase in white blood cells."
Both doctors looked at each other. "Guillain-Barre," they said in unison.
"Are there any abnormal liver function tests?" Stoker asked.
"Yes, his LFTs are elevated. But take a look at this report on his blood culture."
Stoker looked at the report. "The culture grew Campylobacter jejuni! I don't need to be fluent in Spanish to read that." Campylobacter jejuni, or CJ, was a common bacterium, responsible for most instances of food poisoning. It was also responsible for roughly twenty percent of Guillain-Barre cases in the United States, and perhaps in Mexico.
"That confirms our suspicions. Mr. Flores is suffering from Guillain-Barre syndrome. What about patient Rosarita Gomez?"
Rivera thumbed through more paperwork. "Yes, here we go. Ditto for Ms. Gomez. A spinal tap with protein in her cerebral spinal fluid, and her blood culture grew Campylobacter jejuni."
"We've got twenty or more people testing positive for CJ who display significant motor paralysis of the larger muscles, to the point they can't walk. Then we saw hospital personnel conducting spirometry and nerve conduction studies. The hospital is overwhelmed with patients on ventilators. And, now we find the spinal tap and blood culture results for two patients that point to Guillain-Barre—a non-contagious disease, I might add."
"I can't think of anything else," Stoker interjected. "If Guillain-Barre is the culprit, I have no idea why the staff was wearing extra protective equipment. Let's check on the rest of these patients' lab results."
"We know what we'll find. Abnormal protein in the cerebral-spinal fluid as well as the Campylobacter bacteria in their blood. But, we still need to do our due diligence and look at all the data."
Stoker and Rivera went through everyone on their list. The results they saw left them with little doubt the patients were all battling Guillain-Barre syndrome, a rare disease that often paralyzed its victims for a few weeks to months. "So why, in a city of this size, do all of these people suffer from this rather rare disease?" Rivera asked.
Stoker thought for a moment. "More than twenty people have it at the same time—and that's just in this single hospital. The whole city of Chihuahua should see less than twenty cases in a whole year." Stoker started to lay the lab results out on a counter. "Can you take pictures of these documents, Rivera? We may need this evidence to get people to listen back at home."
Rivera took out his smartphone and started taking pictures as he commented. "Here's the good and the bad. There's a good chance, with the right support, ninety-five percent of these people will live. The bad question is, do they have enough ventilators in Hospital de Los Santos to support all of these people if they continue to have an epidemic?"
"We'll never know," Stoker said. "And, even if we did, we could not do anything about it right now. Our pressing priority is getting out of here with enough evidence to persuade the right authorities to look into this phenomenon."
Rivera continued taking pictures of the lab results. Stoker returned the reports to the right folders, binders, or filing cabinets.
"And why would they be having an epidemic of this particular disease?" Rivera asked. "The odds of a Guillain-Barre epidemic of this magnitude—well, it's just not something that would happen naturally. Something's going on here."
"My intuition tells me it's human-made," Stoker said.
"So, amigo, what else is your big right brain telling you?" Rivera asked.
Stoker stopped organizing the paperwork for a moment. He furrowed his forehead and frowned. "Genetics. Someone's manipulating the damned genetics."
CHAPTER 10
Chicago, Illinois
Nikolas Antoniou chose Chicago as his base of operation, all those years ago, for two reasons. First, the Ayatollahs had ordered him to select a large Midwestern city. Second, Lake Michigan offered plenty of sailing. Yachtsman was part of the persona Nikolas had projected over the many years he'd been laying the groundwork for his silent terror attack on a vast scale. In conversations, he claimed sailing was his refuge from the pressures of running his hotel and other ventures. But, business deadlines and economic strains didn't bother him. Those troubles stood no comparison to the threat of Middle Eastern terrorist maniacs, driven by a mandate from Allah, making demands with impossible timetables.
Today Nikolas sailed due north on a beautiful sixty-four-foot yacht over the waters of Lake Michigan. This vessel was quite similar to The Winds of Athens sailboat he’d left in Greece. The breezes were a little lighter than he would've liked. His vessel's velocity vacillated between three and four knots. It was silent and peaceful—experiences his psyche could not appreciate. He could not recognize beautiful aesthetics or participate in meaningful relationships. Yet, with some effort, his dispassionate brain could contrive fake emotions—an exercise he had to engage in dozens of times each day as he helped lead and pace conversations. It took strenuous effort and immense focus for his frigid dark mind to fabricate false empathy, passion, enthusiasm, or warmth in interactions with all people.
After two hours of sailing, Nikolas anchored his boat a mile offshore from Northwestern University. He set up a robust unidirectional Wi-Fi transceiver and directed it tow
ard the school. Then Nikolas went below deck and connected to a Wi-Fi hotspot at Northwestern University. Using different hardware and software to encrypt his data, he masked his computer's location and I.P. address.
At 10:30 am sharp, Nikolas joined a teleconference. A man he had known since his youth issued a curt greeting. His bonyad director, Alireza Pour-Mohammadi, always treated Nikolas as subservient. But today, the director started the meeting by expressing blatant hostility toward the agent he had mentored and buried so deep in America. One of Nikolas's counterparts from Iran's Ministry of Intelligence and Security joined the teleconference from Nassau, Bahamas. The director greeted the man in the Bahamas with some level of warmth. Then a man, who was not Iranian, joined the teleconference from his location in Asia. "Let us begin," stated the director. "We must be direct in addressing our most frustrating constraint. Nikolas, why are there not yet thousands suffering from your diseases in the streets of America?"
"We accomplished our first attack, my Sayid," Nikolas explained. "We used the amoeba at this barbaric festival, Burning Man."
"So why is nobody dying or suffering?" the director asked with a venomous tone. "I think your attack has failed!"
"My Sayid, It takes four weeks or longer for symptoms to appear. As we speak, there are thousands of American devils incubating these amoebas. In a month, doctors will start seeing these cases. In two months, the amoeba, Balamuthia mandrillaris, will create death and chaos in America's homes, clinics, hospitals, and workplaces."
"And there is another germ—or whatever you call it—you will be releasing soon. Report on that."
"Yes, I issued the order to begin disbursing the bacteria. The teams are staging as we speak. The germ is one of the most common bacteria in the world. Again, its name is Campylobacter jejuni. Millions upon millions of people are infected with it each year. They experience diarrhea for a few days. But we've made our version much more potent. About half of the people infected with our Campylobacter bacteria will develop the miserable Guillain-Barre syndrome, thanks to the genetic modifications we've done."
"This Guillain-Barre, it is the disease that paralyzes people so they cannot breathe?"
"Yes. But, victims do get better after months. We will infect millions of people—and at about the same time, America will start to grapple with the amoeba Balamuthia. The hospitals will be overwhelmed just when they are reeling from the amoeba. Most of these Campylobacter patients who get Guillain-Barre will need ventilators to breathe for them. A medical study published in 2010 estimates there are, at most, 161,000 ventilators in the United States. If a million people need those ventilators, and there is just a fraction of the demanded ventilators available, our little germs will break down the medical system. Americans will perish at the hands of an illness that rarely kills its victims—as long as they have access to a ventilator."
Then the man in the Bahamas broke into the conversation. "Why do we need two germs, when one suffices?"
"Many of the initial symptoms are similar," Nikolas responded. He chose to contrive some fake emotions as if he was excited and optimistic. Nikolas added energy to his voice and mannerisms. He knew it would help his bonyad director feel some enthusiasm for the biological attack and its violent elegance. "Both pathogens' symptoms steer doctors toward a neurological diagnosis. At first, the consequences from the bacteria will start to show up as Guillain-Barre syndrome. Doctors will start getting alerts about the epidemic from the CDC, which will condition them to be on the lookout for it. Only days into this conditioning, patients will start showing up with the amoeba infection. Just enough people will be misdiagnosed with Guillain-Barre because the symptoms are so similar. They’ll get the wrong treatments for a few days as the amoeba continues to eat away at their brain. After many deaths, doctors will discover there is a second epidemic—a very lethal epidemic. They’ll be behind the eight ball with thousands of patients—who are also candidates for ventilators.
“Yes, this delay will kill many people. But more important, it will terrorize everyone. The American media will report on this phenomenon and make it even larger than it is. Americans will feel a deep lapse of confidence in their medical system and their government. For Americans, this triggers horror in their news-cycle-hypnotized satanic minds. Their medical system is both their Mecca and Medina."
Nikolas's counterpart in the Bahamas finished the thought. "Because they are so focused on this amoeba you call Balamuthia, the Americans will fail to see this other bacterium, Campylobacter jejuni?"
"Yes, at least in many cases for a few initial days or weeks. This will further amplify the confusion and terror. That is the beauty of attacking with the amoeba Balamuthia mandrillaris first, and then following up with the genetically modified bacteria, Campylobacter jejuni. It will take them a few weeks to figure out the Campylobacter jejuni is weaponized. By then, America will be using every single ventilator and trying to figure out how to keep millions of paralyzed people breathing."
"Once they have it all figured out," asked the bonyad director, "for how many weeks will they be testing people for two different pathogens?"
"The Campylobacter bacteria will begin to subside within about ninety days. But the Balamuthia amoeba will be a longer, slower burn. There will be a consistent number of cases for about six months before it starts to taper. But, I imagine doctors’ offices and emergency rooms will be screening for both pathogens for at least eight months. It will be a long, tiring terror."
"It's brilliant," the man in the Bahamas said. "Americans expect bombs and the type of terror that occupies a few days in their news-cycle-conditioned mentality. Eight months of wide-scale, slow, protracted terror will be hell on Earth. I shall relish every moment as I witness the hand of Allah across the land!"
The director, Alireza Pour-Mohammadi, interrupted his enthusiasm. "But, I for one do not like this timeline! My patience has worn thin with these many years—almost two decades now— of incubating bacteria and amoebas and storing them in the basement of your hotel. While I see your vision, I am not as optimistic as your counterpart in the Bahamas. Right now, it's a pipe dream. I need results. I need sick, dying Americans. I need hospitals bursting at the seams. I need families begging for their loved one to have access to a ventilator. I want fights in the streets of America as brother rises up against brother and neighbor against neighbor. The irony of it all. It is Allah who gives the Ruh-Allah, or the breath of life. And here, these Americans will be begging for a false, mechanical breath of life while ignoring the true source of life!"
Nikolas stared up at the monitor before him. His enthusiasm for the majesty of his biological attack plan had not diminished during Pour-Mohammadi's speech. His response was simple. "You shall have your wish. In days we shall release the Campylobacter jejuni bacteria."
"No!" the director responded. "You will attack now. Your elegant timing is an unnecessary extravagance. You will unleash our fury now. We do not have the luxury of timing. We have two other attacks from your colleagues in the Bahamas and Asia. Their attacks are the death blow calamities. Your germs will terrorize all; but when it comes to death, they are just a harbinger of what will be."
"Yes, my Sayid," Nikolas replied. He did not dare argue with Pour-Mohammadi face to face. Nor did he need to.
"For your sake, and the sake of your loved ones under our constant watch and protection in Saudi Arabia, you had better be right. I need millions of infections. If your silent army of billions upon billions of germs fails, you, your wife, and your children all become useless to us. Dead weight, which we would need to shed."
Nikolas chose to say no more, hoping the director would move onto the additional business at hand.
"Now we shall discuss the final judgment. It will hit the Great Satan and turn their hearts to the East, to Mecca," Pour-Mohammadi said.
"Have you taken possession of the cruise ship?" the director asked the man in Nassau.
"The boat is now in our possession. Last night we readied some of the hardw
are we will need. Tonight, we will finish loading our cargo from the Bahamas.
"The benign materials that are easy to disguise." The director clarified.
"Yes, the delivery we acquire off the coast of Belize will include the important elements."
Until now, the man in Asia had been silent. "And what does your timeline look like for you to arrive in Belize and acquire those materials?" His tone was urgent. "We have fallen behind schedule, you know. People here in Asia are starting to doubt us."
"Give us two months," the man in the Bahamas said.
"Can you buy us two more months?" the director asked the man in Asia.
"Concrete data and plans will help me. While logic is not the primary criteria for making choices here, showing actual progress and a firm timeline will offset the mixture of mysticism and emotion that drives decisions here."
"If Nikolas does his job right," the bonyad director said with anger in his voice, "the headlines will be full of outcry about the sick, suffering, and dead in America. We will have a proverbial hurricane of cloud cover."
"So, it's all resting on you, Nikolas," the man in Asia said. It was a taunt more than a comment.
Nikolas felt something inside of him trigger. He sensed beads of perspiration developing on his temples. Profuse moisture wet his armpits. He hoped the others in the teleconference could not see his forehead glistening with sweat. With a herculean effort, he relaxed his face. Injecting a hint of false bravado and an abundance of insincere piety into his voice he spoke. "I am honored to have such a holy responsibility on this the dawn of our greatest hour."
Pour-Mohammadi spoke. "May your responsibility lead to happiness and prosperity for your fine family." Then he ended the teleconference, and the screen went black.
Nikolas closed the cheap notebook computer he had been using and took it with him onto the deck of the sailboat. He let the device slip out of his hands and fall into the depths of Lake Michigan. If anyone ever attempted to associate today's conference call with a computer MAC address, they may uncover the MAC address. But, they would never find the computer.
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