The Nightmare Scenario

by Gunnar Duvstig

  Following the maître d’ down the stairs from the dining room, a sense of calm returned to Aeolus. The club’s atmosphere had that effect on him. The old dark wooden panels, the paintings of ancient dignitaries and members, the well-worn green carpets, all played together to create a bond with an earlier time, a more civilized era, through tradition unchanged. That was what he sought and found here – a connection to the past.

  No single object in the club conveyed this more than the old clock. It was the same clock before which Phileas Fogg had made his twenty thousand pound bet that he could travel around the world in eighty days. This club was indeed, as clubs were supposed to be, his home away from home. As he continued down the stairs, the clock struck eight behind him, with deep reverberating chimes.

  Aeolus entered the phone room and lifted the receiver. It was an old Bakelite phone, a phone suitable to the surroundings of the club, a phone in which one could converse while maintaining a sense of dignity; a rare quality among apparatuses in these modern times.

  The voice at the other end was that of Walt Myers. Walt was his Chief of Staff, whom Aeolus had kept on from the last administration when he took over as Director-General of the World Health Organization. Walt was a peculiar character, not much of a doctor, but a capable administrator. At first, Aeolus could not understand how Walt could have possibly gotten the job, given his weak academic credentials. Walt had, however, proven invaluable to compensate for Aeolus’s own, slightly – not to say massively – disorganized behavior.

  “Yes, Walt,” Aeolus exhaled. “I’ve rarely been so glad to hear your voice. What now?”

  “Sir, we might have something of a situation. It’s probably nothing, but I thought I’d bring it to your attention anyway. Better safe than sorry, as you often say.”

  “Yes, indeed. What do we have?”

  “We have a report from a nun, working in the easternmost parts of Indonesia. Papua, I believe the region is called.”

  “Yes, that’s what it’s called. What about it?”

  “She reported a whole indigenous village dead, wiped out by something she was convinced was an infection. She claimed that tribesmen had pneumonia-like symptoms and furthermore reports discolorations of the skin.”

  “And how would she know how to recognize pneumonia? Is she by any chance a doctor?”

  “No, but a trained nurse.”

  “Walt, in all likelihood this is a contamination of their water supply. For all we know, ‘pneumonia-like symptoms’ could mean a cough.”

  “Yes, I thought so, too.”

  “I mean, there’s no way this is an infection. A one hundred percent mortality rate is unheard of. It has to be something else.”

  “Yes, I just thought I’d make you aware of it.”

  “…Unless, of course, they’ve been isolated and lack our basic immunities,” said Aeolus, his mind regaining focus, shaking off the effects of the claret he’d had with dinner.

  “Should we let it go?” asked Walt.

  “No, it’s serious enough. This is what we’re here for. We have to investigate. As you said yourself, better safe than sorry. When did this happen?”

  “The call came in about ten days ago,” Walt answered calmly.

  “What!?” Aeolus exclaimed in a voice loud enough to be heard outside the booth. “The call came ten days ago? And we’re only hearing about this now? Is this some sort of joke!?” Aeolus cast a brief anxious glance outside to ensure that no club member had been bothered by his loss of temper.

  Walt cleared his throat. “When the call came in, the local manager wrote it off as a case of little importance and placed it in the low-priority queue. A young intern found it and thought it was worth calling in.”

  “Ten days? That means it will be impossible to get a live sample, at least if it’s viral. I’d be surprised if a virus could survive in a body in that climate more than two or three days.”

  “Yeah, it was a bit of a SNAFU from the locals.”

  “You think!?” Aeolus knuckles turned white from his hardening grip around the cane. “What about the nun?”

  “No contact since she called it in. How do you want to handle it?”

  Aeolus spent a moment of thought going through the options available to him. He considered the more experienced members of his staff, but none of them really met with his approval. This was either nothing or something new. It would require instinct, not procedure. He could think of just one person whom he would be comfortable leading this, apart from himself.

  “Let’s send that Rebecca Summers girl.”

  “Summers? You mean the young woman from the Epidemic Intelligence Service conference last year? Maybe I’m overstepping my bounds here, but isn’t she a bit too junior for this? You don’t think we should let the locals handle it, rather than flying someone across the world?”

  “I think we can both agree that the locals have done enough damage already. I’ll get her on a plane to head up the team. Make sure there’s equipment in place when she arrives: HAZMAT suits, maps, vehicles, guides, whatever they may need.”

  “Of course. Just one detail. You are aware that she doesn’t work for us, right? She works for the CDC. You’re going to have to get Hank Wiley’s approval.”

  “Yes, Walt, thank you, I’m aware of that” Aeolus answered, his voice tinged with annoyance. Walt had a tendency to raise concerns that were, to Aeolus’s mind, minute details unworthy of his attention. This irritation was never more pronounced than when he knew that Walt was right.

  “Just get the logistics in order, and I’ll take care of the rest,” said Aeolus and moved to hang up the receiver.

  He saw Jean-Pierre walking past the booth, unsteady from excessive alcohol consumption, apparently on his way home. Aeolus regretted that he did not have time to go back and finish his dinner in peace and quiet.

  He put the receiver back to his ear.

  “Walt, one more thing. Please fire whoever this sad excuse for a manager they have down there is.”

  “I can’t do that, you know we have no authority over who works at the local WHO offices. And also, if I may, sir, albeit clearly a mistake, this hardly qualifies as a sufficient reason to terminate employment.”

  “I’ll be the judge of that, Walt. Remember: ‘Men are not hanged for stealing horses, but that horses may not be stolen.’” He went on, “I don’t know how you do these things, but I know you can. Just get it done. Use my name if you have to. For the love of God, use the Secretary General’s name if you have to. Just get it done!”

  With that, Aeolus hung up, and made for the exit. At the reception desk, the maître d’ met him, handing him his briefcase, phone and double-breasted cashmere coat.

  Aeolus took them with a courteous nod.

  “Could you please do me the favor, if such an opportunity arises, of letting our French guest know that my name is pronounced AY-o-lus, not ah-YO-lus. I am, after all, not a condiment.”

  The maître d’ smiled gently and nodded back with great poise and dignity, reassuring Aeolus that she would do just that, and that she would do it with an appropriateness that would most certainly be lost on the Frenchman.

  Once outside, Aeolus shivered as the cool London mist enveloped him. After all these years in London, he had still not been able to adjust to it. No clothes could stop it. It just went straight through to your bones. He picked up his phone and called Jitsuko.

  Jitsuko was Aeolus’s assistant, or, to be more precise, one of his three assistants. He had Jitsuko based in San Francisco, Tomomi in Hong Kong and Mandy at the office in Geneva. Together, they covered him around the clock – and he needed it. Obviously, the WHO budget did not allow for excesses like this. He paid for them himself. He had the means to do it. In fact, he had the means to do almost anything he wanted. His father had seen to that.

  “Jitsuko, how quickly can you get someone from Atlanta to Jayapura in Indonesia?”

  “Jayapura? Where exactly is that? Do they even have an airport? Well, nev
er mind.”

  Aeolus listened with contentment to the rapid clicking of her keyboard as she raced to find a solution. In the same way as incompetence frustrated him enormously, observing people who really knew their jobs gave him great satisfaction. And his assistants were very good at their jobs. They were among those few who never disappointed him.

  The clicking stopped and Jitsuko came back on: “Can I use a private jet? In that case, I’d say twenty-four hours.”

  “Okay, go ahead. Use whatever means you have to and charge anything that is outside of the expense policy to my private account.”

  “Who are we transporting?”

  “A brilliant young epidemiologist named Rebecca Summers.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, please get hold of said Rebecca for me, coordinate the logistics with her, get Leonard to pick me up and set up a call with Hank Wiley. Also, have Mandy cancel my appointments tomorrow. I need to go to Geneva.”

  “You know you’re giving two speeches in London tomorrow?”

  “Yes, we’re going to have to staff them out to someone else, one of ‘The Others’.” By “The Others” Aeolus was referring to the seven Assistant-Directors General who didn’t work with epidemics. “This is more important. My real job is, after all, to keep the world safe, not to scare up committees to get them to increase our funding.”

  “They’re expecting the Director-General of WHO giving his views on the main global health threats, not an Assistant-Director talking about birth-related problems in Africa. Also, you know that ‘The Others’ hate it when you do this.”

  “First of all, this audience will just have to make do with what it gets. This is a fundraiser for Christ’s sake. And as to whether the person sent is happy or not, I couldn’t care less. This is the price they pay for the autonomy I’ve granted them in their own areas.”

  “Ryokai!”

  Aeolus recognized the distinct murmur of his 1962 Bentley S2 Continental Flying Spur’s motor before Leonard turned the corner of Cockspur Street. The engine mellowed to a purr as the majestic forest-green car pulled up, ready to take him home.

  As he stepped into the car a young man, arts or music student based on the looks of him, passed by. He had the volume of his iPod turned up way too loud and Aeolus instantly recognized the opening of Mozart’s Requiem. Aeolus, although not surprised, shook his head in disapproval. He briefly pondered whether there was ever a piece of music that had been so exploited and hence destroyed by being played as background cover to such a broad series of poorly written movies and TV shows, ranging from romance to drama to horror. Pondering it a second more, he realized he could actually think of not just one, but two such pieces: Carl Orff’s “Carmina Burana” and Johann Sebastian Bach’s “Air on a G String.”

  He stepped into the car and Leonard drove off. Aeolus rested his head on the back of the seat, pinched the bridge of his nose with his left hand and began to contemplate how to handle the unavoidable upcoming confrontation with Hank Wiley. Hank was the Director of the American CDC – The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. He was Aeolus’s counterpart in the US. Aeolus despised Hank and Hank hated him. It went back a long way.

  JULY 8TH, AROUND 10 PM, 18 KENSINGTON SQUARE, FORMER RESIDENCE OF JOHN STUART MILL

  Aeolus left the kitchen and ascended the stairs to his study, balancing a freshly poured, steaming cup of Tieguanyin tea in his right hand and a stack of medical journals in his left. Once in his study, he turned on Clifford Brown’s 1952 live recording of “I Come from Jamaica.” Regular jazz bored him, but great jazz was something different altogether.

  Halfway through a report of a newly discovered coronavirus, his phone finally rang, with Jitsuko announcing she had Rebecca Summers on video.

  Rebecca appeared on the screen of his phone. She was wearing a white lab coat and looked like a typical research nerd with all the stereotypical attributes: the pocket protector full of pens, the protective glasses, the lack of makeup, her chestnut hair carelessly tied up in a bun. Still, her body had those rare contours that owed their definition to a combination of luck with genetics and continuous effort in exercise. Even more noticeable was the energy that radiated from, and the sharp attentive focus of, her clear, piercing green eyes. Aeolus was not attracted to women, but he could see why some men, in spite of her lack of customary emphasis of femininity, would find her an object of desire.

  “Dr. Hughes,” she said, breaking out in a smile as she removed her glasses and brushed a tangled lock of hair out her face. “It’s good to see you again. What can I do for you? I assume this isn’t about my recent paper on the tuberculosis mutations in Africa?”

  “No, not at all, although I must admit the paper wasn’t too bad,” Aeolus said, and cleared his throat. “We have a bit of a situation in Indonesia and we need to send a team. I want you to lead it.”

  Rebecca frowned ever so slightly and paused in surprise before she replied: “Dr. Hughes…”

  “Aeolus is fine.”

  “Well, Aeolus. Look, I’m obviously flattered, but I’m relatively inexperienced. Surely there’s someone more qualified? If not within your own staff, what about the European CDC?”

  “The ECDC? They have no one. I’ve already hired every member of their staff worth their salt. I’ve seen your work. Your field studies are impressive. You have good instincts, and you’re one of very few who have held your own in a scientific debate with me for quite some time. I want you to lead it. That’s all the reason you need. Will you go?”

  Rebecca’s frown was gradually replaced with a smile – a smile with a hint of pride.

  “Yes,” she responded, “of course I will. What do we have?”

  “A nun, nurse by training, working as a missionary in Papua, called our local office and claimed she had a whole village wiped out by what she thought was an infection. She described the symptoms as varied and in verbatim: ‘pneumonia-like with additional discolorations of the skin.’”

  “Hmm… Well, it’s probably something in the water supply.”

  “I would agree.”

  “I mean, ‘pneumonia-like symptoms’ could simply mean that they were coughing. But the combination with discolorations of the skin sounds odd. Surely she’s mistaken? A whole village wiped out? Not many things around that could do that. The only thing I can think of would be prions, but that takes years. It’s just impossible that they would all have died at the same time.”

  “That’s exactly what I said.”

  “Unless, of course,” Rebecca went on, twirling a lock of her hair between her fingers, “they’ve been isolated and don’t have our basic immunities.”

  “And the penny drops,” responded Aeolus. The remark was meant as flattery, not condescension, and was clearly understood as such.

  “I’ll clear it with Hank,” Aeolus continued in a distant tone, his mind already moving on to the next problem at hand. “My assistant will get back to you on logistics. Start packing, you’ll be on site within twenty-four hours.”

  “You realize you’re sending me halfway around the world to investigate something which is either a regular flu, or, even worse, a simple case of food poisoning.”

  “Yes, young lady. But that’s what we’re paid for.”

  “Yes, on our good days… Thanks for the opportunity. I’ve been in the lab for too long. I was never meant for this. It’ll be a relief to get out into the field again.”

  “All the equipment you need will be there. Video link to Geneva when you’re on site.”

  “See you on the other side,” she said and hung up.

  Aeolus recalled the first time he had met Rebecca. It was at an Epidemic Intelligence Service conference a year ago. She was standing beside her poster on some fieldwork she’d done on the spread of multi-resistant tuberculosis in western Africa. It was solid work, but the conclusion had been pushed too far, or so Aeolus thought at the time. After violent debate, first by the poster, then over drinks and finally dinner, she managed to
convince him otherwise; a rare experience for Aeolus.

  Arthur Conan Doyle once wrote in The Valley of Fear: “Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself, but talent instantly recognizes genius.” Aeolus had that talent, and he recognized in Rebecca just what it took to be good at what he and a few other people around the world specialized in: Stopping epidemics and fighting lethal diseases on a global scale.

  The sound of his phone brought him back to reality. Jitsuko informed him that logistics were taken care of and that she had Hank Wiley on the line. As Jitsuko connected the call, Aeolus took a deep breath and braced himself for what was to come.

  JULY 10TH, 6 AM, STRATEGIC HEALTH AND OPERATIONS CENTRE, WHO HEADQUARTERS, GENEVA

  The mood in the room referred to as “The Strategic Health Operations Centre,” – “the SHOC” for short – at the WHO headquarters was tense. The room was the nerve center of the WHO’s global epidemic response – the nexus through which health operations around the world were coordinated and led. In the middle was a large, horseshoe-shaped conference table, with computers hooked up to the Global Alert and Response Network. There were several large display screens on the wall, as well as video conferencing links and secure communication channels to all WHO-related operations and major hospitals around the world. Today the room was packed to the brim with staffers sitting at the table and leaning against the walls. The silence was complete.

  Aeolus presided at the head of the table, leaning forward in his chair, supporting himself with his cane. To his left sat Walt, whose quirky appearance made him even more of a peculiar character than all his odd mannerisms. Walt sported, as always, a rather bold red polka dot bowtie and a pair of horn-rimmed glasses that gave him an uncanny resemblance to the character Smithers from “The Simpsons.” There were both senior staffers there for support and some junior staffers, who sat in for their own learning benefit. Aeolus hoped to God none of the younger ones would do something to embarrass him in front of Hank Wiley, who had just appeared on one of the screens.