The Nightmare Scenario

by Gunnar Duvstig

  “Why would you send him? We know nothing about him. I’m not even sure he’s an MD?”

  “You’re wrong. We do know something about him. He has a brain, a good one even. As I’ve told you many times: intrinsic ability trumps experience nine times out of ten. Also he speaks the language, and can probably be on site in a matter of hours. That works for me in terms of a liaison until Rebecca gets down there. Also, it’s going to take me a while to get back, given the hour. Have someone pull an all-nighter and compile everything we have for me by tomorrow morning. Someone smart.”

  “You really should pay closer attention to your staff.”

  “So you keep telling me.”

  “Also, if I may say, this would have been a good time to have had a deputy, sir.”

  “Which I would have, Walt, if there had ever been a candidate with the qualifications required.”

  “Some say your standards are too high.”

  “Yes, they are high, and for good reasons.”

  “If you say so. There is one more thing. One of the doctors and a nurse at the hospital are showing symptoms.”

  “Hmm… For now, I would just write that off as a consequence of the primitive state of their equipment. That reminds me, we need to send gear.”

  “Already done. Basics dispatched from Jakarta and proper lab equipment with full kit is on its way from Singapore.”

  “Do we have samples?”

  “Yes, samples have been sent, blood and swabs, for all I know by raft, to Jakarta.”

  “Reroute them to Dr. Loo. They’ll do it faster and better.”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Good prep-work, Walt. I have no idea how this organization would function without you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The bell sounded and the noise from the crowd outside the opera house waned as the audience started making its way back inside for the third act. Aeolus watched the men in tuxedos and women in cocktail dresses retreating, floating, wraithlike, across the square, bathed in the monochromatic light from the glowing disc of the moon.

  Mother Nature had thrown down the gauntlet, but he was not one to shirk from a challenge. He straightened his back in a defiant posture, staring back at the moon, beckoning her to bring it on.

  SIMULTANEOUSLY, CDC HEADQUARTERS, ATLANTA, GEORGIA

  Rebecca once again checked her phone for new texts, in spite of the fact that there had been no sound from her phone since she checked the last time ten minutes ago. Roger was coming to town and they had talked about meeting up for a drink.

  Since bumping into Roger in Jakarta three weeks earlier, they had spoken on the phone a couple of times. They probably would have talked more if Rebecca hadn’t been so hell-bent on never calling him twice in a row, without him calling her back first. She didn’t want to seem too eager.

  Roger always seemed to be in a good mood when they spoke. He regaled her at length about the documentary that he had just completed. It had earned great praise from his producer. There was apparently a scene with an old Chinese woman, which was particularly gripping. She described how the military lit a fire in a circle around their neighborhood, letting it burn inwards.

  Rebecca, for her part, had told him stories about her fieldwork in Africa, and all the bizarre experiences that had come with it, exaggerating them slightly to make them more interesting than they actually were, in the hope of making the conversations last longer.

  She checked her phone again, and as she did so it beeped. The message read: “At the Halo Lounge. Want to meet up?”

  She waited three minutes, counting the seconds passing on her wall clock, before she replied: “Sure, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  She went to the ladies’ room to put on a light layer of make-up, just some foundation and eyeliner. Anything more than that just made her feel awkward; the same way high-heeled shoes did. She swore as she smudged the eyeliner. She looked at herself in the mirror and shook her head. Really? Here she was, nervous as a teenage girl on her first date. Roger had never cared about her make-up before. Why would he do so now? She splashed her face with water, washed away the make-up and left.

  A cab and an elevator ride later, she entered the Halo Lounge. She spotted Roger sitting in a quiet corner with two drinks in front of him. The music, muted, hip and soft, mixed with the soft ambient voices, provided a tranquil backdrop of sound. She sat down next to him and said hello.

  In front of her was a Grasshopper. “I took the liberty of ordering in advance,” said Roger. “I was hoping you hadn’t changed your habits too much.”

  “No I haven’t, thank you. And I see that neither have you, at least in regards to drinks. Still doing those Manhattans on the rocks with white instead of red vermouth?”

  “Indeed, my dear.”

  They exchanged small talk for a couple of minutes, commenting on people in the crowd, how the place had changed as of late, and how Diet Coke wasn’t the same after Coca-Cola changed the formula to a hundred percent aspartame.

  Rebecca was just considering how to shift the conversation to a more personal tone when Roger said: “Actually, this isn’t only a social call. I’m working on a story, and I love to get your view on some things.”

  Rebecca put down her drink and slowly shook her head.

  “Wow, do I feel silly now. Here I thought you wanted to see me, and all you want to do is pump me for information for some story? You know, next time, you should just make an appointment with me at the office.”

  Rebecca rose and looked around for her backpack, but before she found it Roger had grabbed her wrist.

  “Twinkie. I’m sorry. I did come here to see you. Really. I’ll prove it if you sit back down.”

  After a moment of hesitation Rebecca sat down, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

  “I brought you a gift,” Roger said with one of his disarming smiles.

  “A gift?” asked Rebecca, suspicion still lingering in her voice.

  Roger pulled a large black leather box from his bag, and handed it to Rebecca.

  As she opened it and saw what was inside, her anger subsided. It was a silly gift, but still, the thought had to count for something.

  “Roger, this is very sweet of you, but I already have a stethoscope, several of them in fact, as do most doctors. Also, I’m not a clinician so I never use them.”

  “This isn’t just any stethoscope. It belonged to someone I think you know. It belonged to Dr. Urbani.”

  “Dr. Carlo Urbani? Really?”

  “You know of him, I take it?”

  Rebecca knew very well who Carlo Urbani was. He was the epidemiologist who received the 1999 Nobel Peace Prize on behalf of Doctors Without Borders. He was the one who discovered SARS in Hanoi and blew the whistle. He was the one who established the first containment, and without the time he by that bought the medical community, they would never have been able to stop it. He treated patients without concern for his own life, and died from it as a consequence.

  “Of course I do! He’s a hero. And not only to me. Every epidemiologist thinks so. Aeolus Hughes himself wrote his eulogy, for Christ’s sake. Where on earth did you get this?”

  Roger shrugged. “Let’s just say that sometimes it pays off to have people who owe you favors.”

  “Roger, this is a fantastic gift. Thank you. That is really very sweet.”

  She leaned across the table, put her hand on his and kissed him gently on the cheek.

  “You know what day it is today, right?” he asked.

  Rebecca did not.

  “It is exactly twelve years since we first met.”

  Rebecca felt her eyes tear up and took a deep breath to keep it from showing.

  “Boy, now I really feel stupid. I am so sorry, Roger.”

  “I’m glad you like it. So can we get on with the interview now?”

  “Roger…”

  “Look, I brought you a gift. You brought me nothing,” Roger said, turning his palms upward, inviting her t
o challenge his conclusion.

  It felt utterly absurd. After this considerable emotional turbulence, the man still wanted to talk about his interview. Well, what could a girl do? Somehow he had earned it.

  “Okay, you win. What’s this all about?”

  “You remember when I met you at the airport in Jakarta and I asked you whether you were working on an outbreak of some apocalyptic epidemic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, since then the topic has started to interest me a lot, and I’ve read up on it. It’s really exciting stuff. I mean, things like how you guys eradicated smallpox, or stopped SARS from killing the world. The bird flu, the swine flu; all those things which you live and breathe.”

  “You’re not the first reporter or writer, for that matter, to think of writing something about epidemics.”

  “No, you’re right. That’s all well covered. I have another angle. I think there’s a more interesting story. I’m talking about the story of the people behind it all, the people who live to fight diseases. I’m talking about their personalities, their backgrounds and their motivations.”

  “You want to write about me?”

  “No, Twinkie, I don’t,” Roger said and chuckled. “Even if I haven’t seen you for a while, I don’t think I have the distance required to be sufficiently objective. I’ve set my sights on another person; someone I understand you know, at least a bit. I’m talking about Dr. Aeolus Pentecost Hughes.”

  “Well, that could indeed make for an interesting read. He’s quite the character. But what kind of story are you writing? I’ll have no part in smearing him. There are a lot of people who would love to see that happen, but I am not one of them. I have the greatest respect for the man.”

  “I don’t know yet. See this as your chance to weigh in. Help me understand the man behind the CV. I know he’s one of the most knowledgeable men on the planet in his field, but what’s he like?”

  “He’s not an easy man to understand.”

  “That’s why it’ll make a good story! Give me a thirty-second rundown of his personality.”

  “For starters, he is transcendentally sharp, and he appreciates that quality in others. He has a very low tolerance for the absence of it and people he considers to be, to put it in his own words, ‘A few prawns short of a paella’. He can cut people apart in public in ways that are, how to put it… just not socially acceptable. Some say he’s narcissistic and elitist. I would just say he’s an acquired taste.”

  “So he struggles with social connection? I mean, I haven’t been able to find any girlfriends or even quick flings, and no boyfriends either, for that matter.”

  “There’s some truth to that. His eccentricity, the way he dresses, his cane, his allegories, quotes and expressions; they all work to create a distance from others. It feels as if he doesn’t really belong here; like he’s from another time and place.”

  Two fresh drinks appeared out of nowhere and a waiter swiftly replaced their empty glasses. She hadn’t seen Roger re-order. He had to have ordered this refill in advance, which meant that he’d been certain she would stay for more than one drink. Cocky. As always.

  “That said, there are people who like him. Admire him even. Like me. And it’s not just for his vast knowledge; it’s for his sense of mission. It’s not just that he lives for his job; it’s as if he seems to feel that it’s his destiny. He’s waiting for that big epidemic, like the Captain Ahab of epidemiology. It’s a contagious passion, but it also sets him apart from the rest of humanity. He has many acquaintances and relations, but I don’t think he has a single real friend.”

  “Perfect! An autistic man on a mission,” joked Roger.

  “Cut it out, Roger,” Rebecca responded coldly.

  “Sorry, Twinkie. Can’t help myself sometimes. Let’s try another angle. I have a medical question for you. Aeolus was born in New York, the only child of Gregory Hughes and Maria Söderstrom, the latter of Swedish descent. His mother died when he was only three years old, from strep throat.

  “This is something I don’t get. Why would she die from that? I’ve had it several times, and I’m still around.”

  “Yes, Roger. You’re basically right. Most people just get a mild infection. There are, however, cases where people die from what’s called ‘Invasive Group A Streptococcus,’ or GAS. Roughly two to three thousand people die every year in the United States. Usually the ones who die have some form of weakness in the immune system.”

  “Maybe you can look at this and shed some further light on it for me?” said Roger, pulling a folder from his briefcase and handing it to Rebecca.

  “Roger, these are his mother’s medical records and the pathology report. Where did you get this?”

  “I’m a journalist. I like doing proper research,” said Roger with a wink.

  “Yep,” said Rebecca, leafing through the pages, “she had diabetes, which makes sense, since that puts her in the risk group. She was also allergic to penicillin, which is bad, but not catastrophic. There are other antibiotics. She was treated with Clindamycin, but still didn’t make it. A tragic case, but not unheard of.”

  “Okay. Not much juicy stuff there, I guess.”

  “No, wait Roger. Oh my God...”

  “What?”

  “It was Aeolus who infected her.”

  “Sorry, now I’m not following you.”

  “Well, children’s playgrounds and daycare centers are like cesspools of infections, because kids don’t have our basic immunities yet. They then pass it on to their parents. That’s why parents of young live their lives with perpetual colds. Aeolus probably got a mild infection, and passed the infection that caused her death on to his mother. That must be a heavy burden for anyone to carry, especially a three-year-old.”

  “Wow. Now we’re talking. That’s exactly the type of stuff I was looking for. A man on a mission, plagued by guilt from having killed his mother...”

  Rebecca had to admit she was getting intrigued herself. She was curious to know more about Aeolus. Roger had that ability – the ability to draw you in. She could lose herself in an hour of conversation with him about something she had originally really had no interest in. He infused excitement into conversations the same way he built suspense in his articles. Talking to him was never boring.

  “Let me ask you one question, Roger, since you’ve been digging into his past. Where does he get all his money? He seems to have astronomical wealth. Is it an inheritance?”

  “Yes. His father, and this I know from interviewing one of his father’s friends, was born in a poor, working-class community, right next to an affluent neighborhood. He grew up determined to rise in society. He reckoned that class was about two things: money and a classical education. He was convinced that both could not be achieved in one generation, so he decided to focus on the money, and leave it to his offspring to focus on the education required to fit in with the upper castes. He was tremendously driven, and also very successful. He worked as an investment banker at Goldman Sachs and became the youngest managing director in the firm. After his wife died, he moved to the London office and went on to become the youngest partner ever elected. He cashed out when the firm went public in 1999. There’s no record of exactly how much money he made, but it must have been over a hundred million dollars. So he achieved his ambition of freeing his son from any financial constraints in his pursuit of social climbing. All this had a cost, though. He worked like a madman. I’ve been told he didn’t take his first Sunday off until he was forty-five. A couple of years later, he died of a heart attack in his office. He didn’t see much of his son.”

  “That explains a couple of things. I mean, that must have been a pretty tough act to follow.”

  “Yeah, but it gets worse. His father held John Stuart Mill as the pinnacle of upper class erudition, and subjected the young Aeolus to the same laborious, rigid, educational methods, as the young Mr. Mill himself. As soon as Aeolus could speak, he was tutored for ten hours a day in various subjects, and i
t did have its desired effect. He read and wrote by four. He started learning Swedish, which he spoke by five, because, and I quote: ‘He wanted to be able to speak to his mother in heaven.’ And from there it just went on. Swiss boarding schools and you know the rest. Always years ahead of his peers, when he made Director-General he was ten years younger than anyone in that role before him.”

  “Yeah, that stuff is pretty well known. This still doesn’t sound like an article to me, Roger.” The bar was filling up and the music was now so loud that Rebecca had to lean across the table and raise her voice. “That’s all you have?”

  “I’m still in the early stages, trying to get my head around it, so not really. I mean, there’s a gap in his résumé for three years in his late teens where I have on hearsay that he spent this time at the Swedish National Defense Radio Establishment, as a representative of US military intelligence, learning Russian and putting it to use spying on them. But that’s not solid enough to print.”

  “The Swedish National Defense Radio Establishment?”

  “It’s their version of the NSA. They fly planes close to the Russian border, picking up radio transmissions. I doubt I’ll be able to substantiate that though – if it came out it would cause a public outcry of a gargantuan magnitude in the land of the Vikings. They have this neutrality thing going.”

  Roger continued questioning Rebecca, trying from various angles to get at the persona of Aeolus Hughes from different angles. After half an hour he changed the subject.

  “Rebecca, it’s getting a bit noisy in here. Would you mind continuing this in the bar at the Marriott?”

  “The Marriott? That’s where you’re staying, isn’t it?”

  “Eh… coincidentally, yes.”

  “Roger, you’re not going to get me that easily. It was nice seeing you again. We’ll pick this up another day.”

  “Aw…come on. I’m leaving town tomorrow, and I need to get this article together. I work under the pressure of deadlines you know, not like your never- ending cycles of research.”

  “No, honestly, Roger, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”