Marion switched on the communications software and looked at her second in command on the screen.
“They’re on their way to Vancouver Island,” she said.
“Good,” said Sofia. “Events seem to be moving more quickly than we anticipated.” She paused. “I’m a little surprised you sent your son on such a dangerous assignment.”
“I wouldn’t have,” said Marion. “Except he was by far the best man for the job.”
“So Doc and Benadir have been fully briefed?”
“Fairly fully,” said Marion Palfrey.
“Does Doc know who we’ve placed as our undercover operative on the island?”
“Not yet.”
“So he’s going in blind?” said Sofia.
“I’d hardly put it like that.”
“But surely you need to tell Doc who he’s going to be working with? I think it’s inadvisable keeping him in the dark. From the start I argued against taking this guy Joeri on without Doc’s approval.”
“So noted,” said Marion.
Sofia shrugged. “Well, there’s bound to be trouble when he finds out.”
“Oh, please,” said Marion Palfrey. “He has to grow up some time.
5: Tourists
Doc and Benadir’s destination on Vancouver Island was the town of Nanaimo, where Dr Flowers worked and where both of the coma victims were in hospital. In the interests of urgency they were flying from RAF Northolt in northwest London, in one of Z5’s Gulfstream Vs with Doc at the controls and Benadir alternately working on her computer, napping, and making snacks for the two of them.
The private jet got them to the island a lot quicker than any kind of commercial flight. But it did present certain problems of its own. Commercial jets flew into Vancouver City on the mainland and, from there; small propeller airplanes achieved access to the island. On the island there were airports at both Nanaimo and Victoria, further south. But Nanaimo was rather a modest affair, not designed for jet landings, and getting a flight plan for Victoria had proved problematical.
So Doc and Benadir decided to fly into the Royal Canadian Airforce Base at Comox, near Seal Bay Nature Park and the settlement of Courtenay, some considerable distance north of Nanaimo.
Civilian flights were not normally authorised to land at Comox — although a Korean Air Boeing 777 passenger jet had once made an emergency landing there as the result of a bomb threat — but Doc and Benadir’s Z5 designation meant that the Canadian Forces were willing to bend the rules for them.
They’d even arranged for a prop plane to be waiting for them — a de Havilland DHC-2 Beaver — to take them on the final stage of their journey – to Nanaimo Airport in Cassidy, some 20 kilometres outside Nanaimo itself. Benadir insisted on flying the Beaver and Doc didn’t argue with her.
When they climbed out onto the small landing field at Cassidy the first thing that struck Doc was the intoxicating clean smell of the air. He could get used to being here.
Since they had nominally entered the country through the Canadian Forces Base Comox, and had arrived in Cassidy on an internal flight, there was no customs or immigration procedures to suffer, and they walked through the tiny airport building towards the parking lot, where they were greeted by a tall, slim young brunette woman standing beside a metallic-blue Jeep Grand Cherokee. They recognised her from the briefing documents that Dame Marion had provided.
“Hi, I’m Eva Flowers.”
“Dr Flowers,” said Benadir. “We weren’t expecting you to meet us.”
“Eva, please. No problem. I thought it would save time all around.”
They shook hands, Benadir making the introductions. “I’m Benadir Abhilasha and this is Thomas Palfrey, but everybody calls him Doc.”
“Benadir, Doc.” Eva Flower’s grip was warm and strong. She regarded Doc with level hazel eyes. “You’re a doctor?”
“Not a medical one,” said Doc. “It’s just a doctorate in marine biology.”
“‘Just’,” said Benadir. “He’s so modest.”
“Well, you’re going to love it around here. The marine biology is pretty impressive, and so is the sea food.” She helped them load their luggage into the back of the Jeep.
“It’s beautiful country,” said Doc. “The first thing I noticed when I got off the plane was how clean the air smelled.”
“You’re just lucky the pulp mill wasn’t doing its thing,” said Dr Flowers. They climbed into the Jeep. Flowers settled into the driving seat and Doc and Benadir got into the backseat behind her.
“Does that affect the air quality?” said Benadir.
“It makes the place stink to high heaven,” said Dr Flowers. She started the Jeep and they pulled out onto the Trans-Canada Highway, accelerating smoothly into the sparse traffic flow.
“By the way,” said Doc, “how did you know to come and meet us?”
Dr Flowers glanced at him in the rear view mirror. “Your mother phoned me. She’s quite a woman.”
“She certainly is,” agreed Benadir.
Doc said nothing.
*
It had been a long flight from England. Doc had enjoyed the experience — he loved flying, but of course he hadn’t been able to take his leg off for the six hours plus of the flight and he was tired now. He’d been more than content to relax and let Benadir take over and pilot the de Havilland Beaver on the final stage of their journey. And now he was equally happy to let the bright young Dr Flowers do the driving.
Until he noticed something.
He glanced out at the gleaming blue water passing to their left as they sped along the coast. To their left.
The waters of the Strait of Georgia, which lay between Vancouver Island and the mainland lay to the east.
Which meant they were heading south.
And the town of Nanaimo was north of Cassidy airport.
They were going in the wrong direction.
Doc realised that he and Benadir had accepted Dr Flowers at face value because they recognised her from her photographs, and because she seemed to know all about them. But they hadn’t confirmed her story about being in touch with his mother.
In fact they didn’t know anything about her.
Doc nudged Benadir and nodded towards the water flashing past them on their left. Benadir stared at it blankly for a moment. And then she got it. She leaned forward and said, in a casual conversational voice, “Where are we going Eva?”
Dr Flowers chuckled and said, “Sorry, I should have told you. Before we go into town there’s something I wanted to show you. I’m pretty sure it has a bearing on this situation, and you’ll want to see it.” She glanced over her shoulder again. “Plus I have an important errand to run there. In Ladysmith. It’s not far.”
“Ladysmith?” said Benadir. “Isn’t that where the second victim was struck down?”
“The second and the third,” said Dr Flowers.
6: Mosquito Soup
“A third victim?” said Doc.
“This is the first we’ve heard about it,” said Benadir.
“We only made the discovery ourselves a few hours ago,” said Dr Flowers. “It was a little girl, five years old, called Bleeke Drakeman.”
“The same symptoms as the others?” asked Doc, then realised it was a stupid question.
But Dr Flowers didn’t seem to think so. “Exactly the same. In the same sequence — swelling, paralysis, coma — but considerably accelerated, perhaps because it was a child this time.”
“You’re thinking that smaller body mass is a factor?” said Benadir. “Allowing the pathogen to act more quickly?”
“Exactly. But we still don’t have a clue what that pathogen might be.” She peered through the windscreen and signalled, turning off the highway into Oyster Cove Road. They drove a short distance further and the Dr Flowers pulled in beside a dense cluster of trees and switched off the engine. She opened the door and got out of the car and Doc and Benadir followed.
They walked down a gentle slope towards the
water. It was a fine, sunny day with a cool breeze blowing in towards them. Dr Flowers was standing on a footpath looking at them.
“This is where it happened.”
“It’s where the little girl fell ill?” said Doc.
“It’s where she was bitten.”
“Bitten?”
Dr Flowers nodded. “Bleeke Drakeman was bitten by a mosquito. Her father and mother were with her. She began to show symptoms almost immediately. Her throat became sore and swollen, she felt feverish, she lost her voice — and then she collapsed. Both parents seemed certain that there was a connection between the mosquito bite and their daughter feeling ill. At first I was inclined to dismiss it as sheer coincidence. The parents said she had exhibited an abnormally large swelling at the site of the sting. More like a welt than a normal mosquito bite. But I dismissed that too. I thought they were exaggerating, or misinterpreting. Why should there be a causal link? I mean, we don’t know of any disease with mosquitoes as a vector that can develop that quickly. So it seemed utterly unlikely.” She looked at Doc and Benadir. “But then I remembered something.”
Dr Flowers began to walk along the footpath. Doc and Benadir followed her. The doctor stared out at the bay, then back inland, towards a cluster of bushes. “I remembered that someone who was present when the Chinese girl was taken ill — Chan-juan Zeng — someone mentioned that she had just been bitten by a mosquito. Miss Zeng was visiting Ladysmith with her boss.”
“Mr Zemin Sun,” said Benadir. She had a near-infallible memory for names. And many other things.
“That’s right. They were here to discuss the possible building of some condominiums — a big real estate deal.” Dr Flowers looked along at the sweep of the coastline. “Personally I think it would ruin the place. But there’s a lot of money in these things. Land development on the West Coast. And the Chinese are hugely enthusiastic. They made enormous investments in property on the mainland just before the credit crunch, and they’re all starting to come back now. Anyway, that’s why they were here. In the centre of town,” she waved a hand inland. “Just a few hundred metres away from where we were standing, when Miss Zeng began to exhibit symptoms. One of the local real estate agents who was with them told me that Miss Zeng had just swatted a mosquito that had stung her. The real estate agent made a point of mentioning the mosquito bite to me.”
She glanced at Doc. “Looking back, I think she was trying to suggest a connection. To tell me she thought the mosquito might have been the cause of what happened.” She sighed. “But I wasn’t ready to listen.”
Benadir touched her arm. “But it was like you said. There was no reason to think that the two events could be connected — you’d never heard of a mosquito borne disease that could take hold with such speed.”
“I still haven’t,” said Dr Flowers. “But now I’m definitely keeping an open mind. I spoke to the real estate agent again and asked if she knew whether Miss Zeng had shown any abnormal swelling or inflammation at the site of the sting. And she said she had. Like a welt or lesion. More like an allergic reaction than a normal mosquito bite.” Dr Flowers stared into the shrubbery beside the footpath again. It seemed to Doc as if she was looking for something. “And since then,” she said, “I’ve been doing some research.”
Dr Flowers suddenly turned off the footpath and plunged into the bushes beside it. Doc glanced at Benadir. They exchanged a shrug, then followed the doctor. They found her crouching in a clearing beside an odd looking object.
At first Doc thought it was some junk that had been abandoned there. But with its well-tended lawns and carefully kept shrubbery, this didn’t this didn’t seem the kind of neighbourhood where people just abandoned rubbish. And on closer inspection, the object had a purposeful, carefully placed look about it.
It consisted of rectangular blue plastic washtub full of murky water. Sitting on top of it was what at first looked to Doc like a chest for tools or fishing gear. It was an oblong black plastic box with a hinged lid that had a yellow handle in the centre and a yellow catch to seal it shut. But the box had a strange stubby white plastic cylinder stuck in one end. The diameter of the cylinder was almost as big as the face of the box.
Looking closer still, Doc saw that the box was fitted to the washtub with metal brackets, and that another stubby cylinder projected from the underside of the box towards the water. This one was made of black plastic and was more truncated than the white one.
Doc realised that there was a noise coming from the box. A steady, whirring hum.
Dr Flowers was kneeling beside this contraption. She looked up at them, smiling proudly. “Do you know what this is?”
“No,” said Benadir. “I think I can safely say that neither of us has a clue.”
Dr Flowers patted the box. “It’s a handy dandy little device I borrowed from a friend in the Department of Health. It’s called a gravid trap.”
“It’s for mosquitoes,” said Doc, comprehension dawning on him.
Flowers nodded happily. “More specifically it’s a Reiter-Cummings gravid trap. That stuff in the bowl is what we call ‘mosquito soup’. It attracts female mosquitoes.”
“Mosquito soup?” Benadir chuckled “What’s in it?”
“Water, alfalfa, brewers yeast and lactalbumin — milk protein in powdered form. Mix it all together and leave it for a week. Then you have this beautiful stuff.”
“And it attracts mosquitoes?” said Doc.
“It attracts female mosquitoes,” corrected Dr Flowers.
“And they’re the ones you want, because they’re the ones who sting humans,” said Doc.
“Exactly right.”
“And it attracts them because it mimics stagnant water,” said Benadir.
“Right again. The female mosquitoes want to lay their eggs in stagnant water —”
“Of course,” said Benadir, snapping her fingers. “Gravid means pregnant.”
“Yes, the pregnant mosquitoes are looking for an ideal environment to lay their eggs, so they come to this little beauty here.” She patted the black box. “And this has a fan inside it and, sucks them right in.” She unsnapped the latch of the box and opened it up.
Inside was a battery, a small set of electronic controls including a glowing red LED and a switch, a large white plastic box with a snap-on lid, of the kind used to keep food fresh, and the fan unit itself, a flared metallic cylinder with wires sprouting from it, attached to one face of the box. The stubby white plastic tube on the outside of the unit was just the air tunnel for the fan.
Doc saw how it worked. “It sucks air in from just above the soup, drawing the mosquitoes into the sandwich box and traps them in there.”
“We mosquito hunting professionals prefer to call the ‘sandwich box’ the collection chamber,” said Dr Flowers. “But otherwise right on the money.” She took out a flat circular piece of plastic that was stored in the box, carefully freed the box from the metal brackets that held it over the washtub, then switched off the fan. It was a relief when the humming noise stopped.
Flowers quickly snapped the circular piece of plastic into the hole in the bottom of the box, sealing it shut. Then she closed the lid of the box, fastened it, and gave it to Doc to carry, using the folding handle. The whole thing was surprisingly light.
“And there we have our first specimens. I won’t ask you to carry the tub of mosquito soup.”
“I’ll do it,” said Benadir, carefully picking the washtub with its repugnant, slopping contents. You could smell the stuff quite emphatically now, and it wasn’t attractive.
“We’ll take it back to my office and replace the fan unit once we’ve transferred the mosquitoes. I’ll courier them to the mainland where there’s a team at the faculty of medicine at the University of BC waiting to examine them.” She smiled at Benadir, carefully carrying the malodorous tray. “We could just leave that here until we come back with the fan unit, but it would provide a breeding area for mosquitoes.” The smile faded from her face. “And that c
ould prove hazardous.”
They only carried the tray of mosquito soup as far as a nearby gas station on the main road, where Dr Flowers went into the ladies room and ‘safely disposed’ of it down the toilet. She came out, holding the empty tray and grinning. “I got some strange looks in there, I can tell you. Now, do you mind if we spend a little more time in this vicinity? I’ve set two more of these traps.”
But the other two traps had problems. In both cases the mosquito soup had been dumped out, and the fan units vandalised. Dr Flowers face fell when she saw this. She looked at Doc and Benadir with a questioning expression.
“Kids, I guess,” she said.
7: Hospital
They drove north back along the highway into Nanaimo. Dr Flowers worked there in a small health centre and cottage hospital called the Chase River Medical Centre.
When they arrived a well dressed Asian man was waiting, pacing impatiently outside the sliding glass doors of the main entrance, smoking a cigarette. He immediately discarded the cigarette when he saw Dr Flowers getting out of the car, dropping it onto the ground. Dr Flowers paused and looked at Doc and Benadir. “You’d better wait here while I have a word with this gentleman.”
So they stayed by the car and watched while Eva Flowers and the Asian man had a short but energetic discussion. The man left, scowling and lighting another cigarette. He glanced at Doc and Benadir as he walked past. He didn’t look pleased. Dr Flower rejoined them and watched him drive off in a Bentley with smoked glass windows.
“That was Mr Zemin Sun. He would like to fly Miss Zeng back to China, where he will see that she receives the finest medical care. He has his own private jet on standby with a medical team to take her back.” She smiled a chagrined smile. “Actually, ‘would like to’ is putting it too mildly. He tried to insist on it. I had to explain that she can’t be moved and has to remain in isolation until we have a better idea of what is causing her condition.” She sighed. “Anyway, I seem to have convinced him it’s for the best. For the time being, at least. Now, as I was saying, you guys should borrow my jeep for the rest of the day.”
Hard Targets: A Doc Palfrey Omnibus Page 18
