by Greg Barron
Julian points at the dwellings. ‘There is no rubbish,’ he says, ‘everything is orderly.’
‘As I told you, the Zaw worship the land they walk on. They see themselves as brothers to the trees, sons and daughters of the rain. Why would they want to mess it up? They have no packaging, everything is mulched and put back into the land. Tools are made to last. A hammer, forged by a Zaw blacksmith, might be handed down through two or three generations, or even more.’
‘Yet they have to chop down trees to make their clearings?’
‘They kill plants and animals to eat, trees for timber. The Zaw see themselves as within the system, not outside it. They worship the whole, but act as an omnivorous part of it. They waste nothing; they kill nothing without reason.’
Julian walked in silence for a while. Scattered in the forest were occasional structures, many made of stone. Some ruins. After passing yet another crystal-clear waterway, Mu said, ‘You have to remember that the Zaw have been in this location for more than a thousand years. Europeans have occupied America for half that time and look what they have done to it. In places like Australia white colonists only arrived two hundred and fifty years ago. Look how they’ve changed the landscape in that time.’
After perhaps another ten minutes of walking they entered a much larger centre. The bulk of the area consisted of a vast market, where at least two or three thousand people milled and wandered around hundreds of stalls. What was lacking, to Julian’s ear, was the general spruiking of wares, so common in Eastern souks and bazaars. Here proceedings were calmer. They paused near a pair of middle-aged women selling root vegetables.
As Julian watched, two customers arrived, a man and his wife, both dressed in simple longyis. The woman’s version covered her from neck to ankle. They selected a sweet potato, then what looked like a variety of turnip, placed them in their basket, and left the stall.
‘They don’t have to pay?’
Mu smiled. ‘Of course not. There’s no money here.’
‘How does that work?’
‘The market is free. All these vendors, once their goods are distributed, will go around the other stalls and be given what they need. Meat, milk, eggs. Anything they haven’t produced themselves.’
‘What if someone’s greedy and wants more than their share?’
‘That rarely happens, but if it does, the stallholders simply don’t let them have too much at the expense of others. The Zaw work very hard to produce what they can.’
‘They’re not all farmers, though, they can’t be.’
‘Not at all. That woman over there, she’s a well-known teacher. Teaching is her contribution to society, and thus she’s entitled to her share as much as any corn grower. Same with a poet, builder or cabinet maker. Everyone works, everyone shares in the bounty. Lean years are lean years for everybody.’
‘Socialism in action?’
‘Please don’t use words with “ism” in them. They’ve caused almost as much death and suffering as religion has. You’ll see echoes of all kinds of theories here — including the antithesis of the one you just mentioned — but the Zaw are neither aware, nor conform to any of them.’
Julian pointed as they walked towards the largest stone building in view. ‘Is that the Zaw parliament?’
‘No, something much more important. The library.’
‘The Zaw have books?’
‘Yes. Education is free. Almost everyone reads Burmese and Mandarin. There are twenty-thousand volumes in there, at least. Books can’t be borrowed, but there is plenty of room in there to read. It’s always full of people.’
They pass schools and then, finally, a nondescript bamboo hall that Julian might have mistaken for a social gathering place.
‘Here we are,’ Mu said, ‘this is what the Zaw call the hluttaw. Loosely speaking it means the house of parliament.’
Like all doors Julian had seen since his arrival, this one was not locked. Mu pushed it open, leading Julian into a large, empty room. Inside were wall hangings of woven frond and coloured thread, the floor was covered with bare boards, polished by generations of bare feet. Books lined a set of shelves along one wall.
Julian shook his head, mystified. ‘Where are they?’
‘Who?’
‘The government?’
‘In their fields, houses, workshops and classrooms, of course. The Zaw don’t feel the need to have a class of people who do nothing but argue for a living.’
‘So who’s running the community?’
‘They all are. Government is a part-time proposition. The public service runs things efficiently. There is no need to constantly invent new laws when the system is working well, as it is.’
The room, Julian estimates, would seat at least two or three hundred. ‘This is fantastic.’
‘They meet weekly, elected representatives of all the districts. They are permitted no party affiliations or factions. Truly necessary new laws are proposed by individual members and discussed, before being voted on. It works, and has done for centuries.’
Julian looks at him studiously. ‘There’s something you’re not telling me. It’s like these people have each undergone an epiphany — that they have some higher knowledge that makes them value things wider society has lost. People on the street in the West — I just don’t think they care to this extent. Something has changed these people. What is it?’
Mu smiles slowly. ‘You are very astute.’
‘So these people have been transformed somehow?’
‘Yes. Let’s walk to our lodgings, and I’ll tell you on the way.’
One week later, Julian saw and understood the vision that is central to the Zaw’s belief system. A vision that so affected him it changed his life.
Now, a cup of sweet Burmese tea at his side, he switches between Photoshop and Final Cut Pro, so absorbed in his task that at first he doesn’t hear the commotion outside. He looks up to see a white man in the doorway in dress trousers and shirt sleeves.
‘Julian Weiss?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m Christopher Hamlyn from the British High Commission. Your presence is required in London. Hurry up and pack your things, there’s a good chap.’
Julian’s heart hammers in his chest. Why do they want him to go back? Have they changed their minds, will he be put on public trial, and buried in some frightening prison? He looks around for an exit. Losing himself in Yangon would be easy.
The man wipes at the sweat on his face with a handkerchief. ‘Tom Mossel said to tell you that this is your chance to redeem yourself.’
FORTY-ONE
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 1000
The briefing in the Blair Room is conducted with an edge of panic. The SITPOL screen scrolls through footage taken by US Navy divers at the bottom of the Arabian Sea, displaying the bodies one after the other, each with a cinder block tied to a limb or torso.
PJ Johnson has seen death in most of its grisly manifestations over the years, but this is something else. This is a killing to rank with Iraqi mass graves, with Cambodia and Rwanda. Not on the same scale, not yet, but right up there for sheer horror, amplified by the underwater scene of pillaging sharks.
Mossel’s voice drones over the audio of bubbles and SCUBA regulators. ‘The pathology results are not conclusive yet, but these people all show signs of pleural effusions — blood in the chest cavity — consistent with death by inhalation of anthrax.’
One of the field operatives whistles softly. ‘Horrible. Can the anthrax get into the food chain and start killing fish?’
‘Apparently not. Anthrax is a disease of humans and livestock. Not fish.’
‘So who did this?’
‘We believe that it was a test undertaken by the same people who are now in possession of the five cluster drones stolen to the north of Epping Forest last night.’ His voice takes on a hard edge. They all know that if Mossel had his choice the truck that had carried those weapons would now be a pile of scrap metal on the si
de of the road.
The footage of underwater bodies stops, and changes to that of an iron ship in a narrow canal.
‘This,’ Mossel goes on, ‘is the Isra, passing through the Suez Canal ten days ago. According to a survivor picked up by the Americans, the anthrax tests were conducted in her holds, and we have reason to suspect that she is now somewhere off the coast of England. She is almost certainly the repository of the stolen drones. Our sole task is to find her. In a few minutes the Prime Minister will order an air and sea search tantamount to an operation of war.’
Tom turns to PJ and the other field agents. ‘I’m going to send you lot home …’
PJ opens his mouth to protest, but Tom continues: ‘Most of you have been on duty for sixteen or more hours. You’re no good to me half-dead from fatigue. As soon as something happens I’ll call you. I want you to be part of any operation once that ship is found.’
PJ lingers after the others have gone. ‘What about you, sir? When was the last time you slept?’
‘I’ve been dozing at my desk. I’m fine, and if I find a spare hour or two I’ll pop home as well. Oh, and by the way, if you still haven’t been called in you can pick Agent Hartmann up from Gatwick — her plane is due in at 1800. Fair enough?’
‘A pleasure, sir, see you later.’
PJ goes to the locker room to collect his civvies and personal effects, then slips into the BMW in the car park, the motor coming to life, reassuringly normal, the boom gate opening for him. He accelerates outside into the traffic of Kennington Lane, quickly merging right to meet the turn into South Lambeth.
Despite the traffic, the drive soothes him, especially once he reaches the M3 and he slips into a hypnotic driving state. He has just passed Chobham Common when his personal cell phone rings.
The voice on the other end says, ‘You know who this is?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s almost time. Be ready.’
Not yet, please not yet, PJ thinks.
‘I understand,’ he says at last.
FORTY-TWO
SYDNEY
LOCAL TIME: 2000
While Jan Sloven waits for the sequencing read-out, he opens a file on his PC, and sends an image to the colour printer. A rare portrait shot of Istikaan, the Hourglass, Zimraan al-Ghazali. Apparently killed in a mid-air collision while attempting to broadcast LSS-253 spores over an East African refugee camp just nine months earlier, his legacy is now the most powerful threat to the West in decades, making al-Qa’ida, even at the height of their potency early in the new millennium, seem unambitious in comparison.
‘This,’ he explains, slipping it into a photo clip, ‘is Istikaan, the Hourglass, ladies. He’s the one who made this strain. He refined it by killing people with anthrax, then removing the improved strain from their blood. That’s who we’re up against.’
Old Mary sums it up: ‘Looks like a psycho.’
‘Ah yes, but an erudite brain, fooled into believing that his life’s work should be devising a tool for mass murder.’
The photograph was, Jan understands, found in the scientist’s living quarters at al-Hajjuf, the underground bunker in which the pathogens were developed over several years. Taken in flattering light, it hints at Istikaan’s Rubenesque body shape, the goggle eyes that had led to speculation of an untreated thyroid condition, and thin lips.
Al-Hajjuf was a hellhole, a place where humans died like cockroaches. The scale of it horrifies Jan. Generations may pass before another man with Istikaan’s abilities is given a chance to use human subjects to create a super pathogen like this one, and that is why there are no second chances. This pathogen has to be understood, then stopped, before it contaminates and kills half the planet, for these spores cannot easily be destroyed, lying in wait for decades to be awakened.
He turns, the screen is flashing. Time to find out exactly what Istikaan created.
As Jan studies the sequencing read-out, it’s as if a cold wind has blown into the lab. A DNA sequence read-out looks like the workings of a grand piano, viewed from above, with coloured keys running down in a row, and coded black dashes on the left. It is designed to be viewed with the known sequence for the organism, all kept in a database on the REDPATH servers. To simplify the process Jan brings both up in a software package that is able to illustrate the variation between the two.
The changes between the parent Vollum strain anthrax and the LSS-253 strain, Jan sees immediately, are in three crucial genes — the three most important for virulence — encoded on a small, circular, double-stranded DNA sequence called a plasmid. These three genes control the toxins produced by anthrax as it is inhaled and begins to attack human tissue.
The three genes are co-dependent, all working together to kill the host. The first makes the cells of human tissue more porous so more bacteria can get inside, the second causes oedema — in which fluid leaks out of cells and produces swelling — and also stops white blood cells from attacking the bacteria. The third, known as the lethal factor, breaks open the host cells. Together, a killing machine honed by evolution and refined by a madman.
Changes to the genome are crucial. The capacity of these three processes to act will govern just how fast the anthrax will affect and kill its victims. The read-out does not disclose the phenotypic nature of these changes. It does, however, highlight possible changes to vaccine resistance. Biothrax is the main worldwide vaccine. It works by using the PA gene, the one that makes the host cells more porous, to elicit immunity.
Old Mary sees it immediately, whistling softly through her teeth. ‘So we might as well not be immunised at all.’
‘Exactly.’
Jan has seen a Biothrax-resistant B. anthracis strain once before, and a sample of it sits in the Controlled Specimen Cabinet — the living archive at the other end of this lab. When he was working at the Animal Health Laboratories in Victoria they had isolated it from a dead Friesian heifer on a dairy farm near Timboon. It was, of course, a natural mutation. The farm had been quarantined, the dead animal destroyed. The strain had never reappeared.
This DNA sequence shows similar properties. Istikaan, the Hourglass, has developed an anthrax strain that is resistant to the main worldwide vaccine, and most likely the Russian STI vaccines as well.
Five million doses of Biothrax in the USA’s Strategic National Stockpile are useless against this. Vaccinations given to armed-forces personnel, world leaders and vulnerable health workers around the world are useless. Jan’s own vaccination is useless.
Jan sits at the computer, and sends out copies of the sequencing read-out to five different agencies across the world. Scientists even more knowledgeable about the B. anthracis genome can now share the workload. He also prepares an email in layman’s terms of the implications of his initial findings and forwards it to Canberra.
The phone rings. He picks it up. The voice from Canberra again: ‘You’re telling me that the immunisation given to ten million servicemen and women in NATO and the West will have no effect against this strain?’
Jan has learned that military personnel like things explained simply. ‘Yes. This particular bug is resistant to the vaccine.’
‘We have a tribe of bad guys about to drop this thing on a fair proportion of the world’s population, and you’re telling me we’ve got no way of protecting against it.’
‘I’m currently testing the response to the usual antibiotics, and there is at least one other avenue, but I haven’t finished the tests yet.’
‘How many people have you got working on this?’
‘Three.’
‘Three! That’s a joke. I want a fucking team in there, do you understand?’
‘No team in the world can make bacteria grow faster. That’s what I’m waiting on.’
‘I’m going to email you through a video file. Watch it — don’t hang up.’
Jan waits while the file loads, but at speeds of 50mbps it doesn’t take long. ‘OK, it’s starting now.’
‘Get your staff over.�
��
He covers the handset. ‘Hey, Mary. You two need to watch this.’
The footage is taken underwater, in a blue-white crystal-clear sea. The light dims as the diver kicks deeper. On the bottom the man adjusts the camera up, obviously strapped to the top of his head.
At first there is nothing, but then the bodies begin to appear. Jan feels a chill. His trained eyes miss nothing. The concrete blocks, the ropes, the faces twisted in agony. The skin marred from the depredations of small fish. The sharks.
‘This footage was taken in the Arabian Sea. They have found two hundred and sixty bodies so far.’
A shark swims by, waggling from side to side, a human leg in its grinning mouth. Young Mary gasps, covers her face with both hands and turns away.
‘We believe that these people were killed in a test of the anthrax strain you are playing with in your laboratory. They were sealed in the hold of a ship, and inhaled the anthrax powder. Apparently all were dead within thirty hours.
‘What you are seeing now could easily have taken place in Sydney, and might soon happen in London, Rome, Paris … God, we don’t even know where. We need to start preparing for perhaps the biggest medical emergency in human history. You need to give us more than you are giving.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
The phone goes dead.
Jan has a headache, and is beyond tired. The footage is still playing — bodies, one after the other, an endless line of them. He can hear young Mary crying on her chair.
He closes his eyes, then looks up at the portrait of Istikaan, the Hourglass. He feels a rage burn through his body, then an image forms in his mind of those seemingly innocent rod-shaped bacteria, and the flood of toxins as they multiply and multiply and multiply throughout the body.
FORTY-THREE
LONDON
LOCAL TIME: 1100
Tom Mossel gets the news about the vaccine resistance of the LSS-253 strain while on a conference call with the Home Secretary, preparing a communiqué to all His Majesty’s armed forces and agencies to find a Cypriot-registered ship called the Isra.
