by Greig Beck
The phone rang as he stepped inside, and he danced lightly across the rug to pick it up, wiping his hands on the towel around his waist.
“Professor Kearns? Matthew Kearns?”
It was a woman’s voice, and not one he recognized. He responded warily. “Yes?”
“Professor Kearns, my name is Carla Nero from the CDC. Do you have a moment to talk?”
“The CDC?” Ignoring the wet towel around his waist, Matt sat down. The Center for Disease Control was like a giant coiled spring, ready to be launched at any serious domestic disease incursion. With enormous funding, human resources, and scientific firepower at their disposal, these guys didn’t exactly make house calls to see if you had an upset stomach from last night’s shrimp.
His mind worked furiously over the recent trips he had taken in and outside the country. Nothing disquieting came to mind.
“Talk … about what?”
“Something you’re very familiar with, Mr. Kearns — old languages.”
Matt frowned. “I don’t get it. When you said CDC, you meant the Center for Disease Control, right?”
There was light laughter. Matt quite liked it. “Yes, we’re that CDC. We have a small outbreak we’re running down, and need some clues as to its provenance. We’re hoping you can assist us with that.”
“Look, Ms. Nero …”
“Carla.”
“… Carla, I’m heading back to Asheville tomorrow, and I should be in the office the day after that—”
She cut him off. “I just need a few minutes. In fact, I’m just down the road.”
“I see. I take it a no is probably not an option then?”
There was that disarming laugh again. “Of course you can say no. Don’t be so distrustful, Professor. We were just in the area and your name popped up. Coffee okay?”
He grinned crookedly. Too many spy movies. “Sorry, suspicious nature. Comes from working in faculty — everyone’s always looking over your shoulder. So, sure, where?”
“Café Glace Noire, just around the corner from you. I’m at a table out front right now. I could only save one extra seat, so please come alone.”
“Glace Noire it is. I’ll see you in ten.” He hung up and glanced across at Megan. Her hair sparkled in the sun, and she leaned back, giving him a clear view of her flat belly and full breasts. He should have asked for twenty minutes at least. He dropped his towel and was about to cross to her when he had a sinister thought — how did Carla know he wasn’t alone? He looked up at the trees surrounding the secluded pool area as his suspicious nature returned in a rush.
* * *
Carla watched the young man saunter down the street. He had excellent academic credentials, was physically fit, spoke every major language and could read or interpret hundreds more. At just thirty-two Matt Kearns was one of the most respected paleolinguists in the world today. He also had a history of working with government departments and came personally recommended by an old friend, Colonel Jack Hammerson. Perfect, she thought.
She looked him up and down: hands in the back pockets of his jeans, hair hanging down to his shoulders and stubble on a healthy jawline that spoke of forgetfulness rather than fashion consciousness. What’s not to like? she wondered.
This man could help, and he was right here, right now. She didn’t intend to let him off the hook — too much depended on it.
Carla turned to a large man in a dark blue Ford Taurus down the street and nodded imperceptibly. The car pulled out and drove slowly away.
Kearns slowed as he neared the café’s numerous outdoor tables and she watched, slightly amused, as he glanced at a few of the patrons, unsure whether to approach her or the older woman with the severely pulled back hair. She decided to make it easy for him.
“Professor Kearns, I presume?” She stood and held out her hand.
He smiled warmly and gripped her hand, shaking it firmly. “You presume correctly. And call me Matt. Not even my students call me Professor Kearns.”
She motioned to a seat next to her and he sat down. After a few minutes of polite chat about the weather and the city, Matt leaned forward.
“So, Carla, the CDC wants to speak to me. Should I be alert and alarmed, or remain quietly confused?”’
She smiled and waited another minute, as the coffees were set in front of them, until the waiter had disappeared. “I’ve seen your résumé, Matt. You’ve been around, so I doubt anything I could say would alarm you too much. But I think we’re the ones who are confused, and that’s why we need your help.”
She sipped her coffee. “Do you know a Professor Pieter Jorghanson?”
Matt frowned, then shook his head.
“That’s okay; he isn’t exactly a household name, even in your academic circles. He used to specialize in anthropology for the University of Santa Barbara. You see, Professor Jorghanson traveled down to the jungles of South America recently, stayed for three months with an undiscovered tribe of natives, and returned a few weeks ago with a fantastic tale and a rather unique specimen. It seems there has been a bit of an adverse biological repercussion as a result of the visit. We need to shut that down.”
Matt tilted his head. “Oookay … and now the million dollar question — how does that affect me?” He flashed what he obviously thought was his most winning smile. Carla sipped again and watched his face. He was wary, but interested. She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “Have you heard of the Gran Chaco jungles in South America?”
Matt leaned forward as well, and lowered his voice. “Paraguayan or Southern Brazil Boreal?”
Carla smiled. “Brazil, Pantanal region.”
He whistled. “Heavy going — some of the thickest jungle on the planet.”
She nodded, thinking that she’d been right about him. “Sure is. It seems Professor Jorghanson found a previously undiscovered tribe who inhabit the area. Over the past twenty-four hours I’ve been given a crash course in indigenous South American dialects and writing systems. My basic understanding is that a race’s writing is supposed to be the representation of their language, usually expressed through a set of symbols. But strangely, the language and writing don’t really marry up. Jorghanson’s discovered tribe, the Ndege Watu, read and write a language that, according to the scholars I’ve spoken to, isn’t really their own. It’s like the writing was taught to them … we think perhaps by the very first Incans.”
Matt sat forward, his eyes wide. “Wow.”
“Exactly.” Carla exhaled sofly. “Our problem is, we need to know what these natives were saying, writing … even thinking. And we need to know now.” She paused, looking down at her cup.
Matt waited for her to continue. Finally, he opened his hands, palms out. “And?”
Carla continued to hesitate, wondering whether she should tell him any more just yet. While she tried to think, Matt leaned forward and spoke softly.
“You still haven’t told me why there is such urgency, or why you and the CDC are involved. This adverse biological repercussion you mentioned — was there some sort of infection that Professor Jorghanson brought back?”
Carla looked at him for several more seconds, then made her decision. She nodded. “You’re partly right. There is no infection — it’s more like an infestation. It seems the specimen Jorghanson brought back had a few passengers, and now they, and their offspring, have escaped. Our problem is parasitic. And the parasite, like the specimen, is — was — something not seen by modern man … probably ever. Perhaps excluding the Ndege Watu.”
Her face became more serious. “It’s moving faster than we can — using us as the vectors. Think about all the people you would come into contact with in a week, or even in a single day — going to work, to the shop, on public transport — dozens, maybe hundreds? And then of those hundreds, extrapolate that again by the people would they come into contact with, and then again, and so on. We call it a contamination shockwave — it moves out in a ring from the ground zero patient, and keeps traveling until it’s stop
ped or burns itself out. That shockwave has already started, and that’s why we’re involved, and the reason for the urgency.”
“But it sounds like you’re planning a trip … to the Gran Chaco? You might as well be dropping yourself into hell.”
“Then hell it is. It’ll be a lot worse than that if we don’t get this under control. We need to find out how the local Indians survived, or lived with the infestation. Something down in that jungle kept them safe, and kept the parasite under control. But up here it’s missing. Believe it or not, we’re in a race, one the CDC needs to win. And I certainly don’t have time to drag along a full team of linguists and camp out in some jungle hothouse for a month. We need one person, one all-round expert.” She leaned forward and grasped his wrist. “We need you.”
* * *
Carla retrieved a folder tucked down by the side of her chair and laid it flat on the table. She rested her hand on it. “We need answers.”
Matt was intrigued, but there was no way he could suddenly up and go, especially for a week or two. He thought about the best way to let her down. He knew a few linguistic specialists he could recommend. He glanced at the folder, curiosity burning now. Maybe, for now at least, he’d see if he could help.
He reached out, but then stopped. Carla had a hand firmly on the folder but her head was turned. She smiled at a mother and daughter at a near table. The little girl was trying to sit a small doll down beside her cup of hot chocolate, all the while scolding the doll for taking too long, and wagging her finger at it like a mother would.
“Ah, Carla.” Matt cleared his throat.
Carla continued to watch the girl. But the smile she once had began to turn down slightly at the corners and her eyes moistened.
“Carla?”
She quickly turned back to him.
“Someone you know?” Matt asked.
“No.” She shook her head. “Just… reminds me of my daughter.” She blinked and a frown momentarily creased her forehead. “Madeleine.”
Matt thought about continuing the topic, but there was something in the woman’s expression that warned him that maybe family, or this relationship, might be out of bounds.
Instead, he nodded toward the folder. “So, you want me to read something, a map, you said? I can certainly try, but I have to tell you, it can take hours, days, or even weeks to extract the meaning from some written languages — if they can be read at all.” He reached across and slid the folder out from under her hand. “Can you tell me anything else? I’m intrigued now, and believe me, context helps.”
She smiled and lifted her cup. “We’ll see.” She sipped, watching him over the rim.
“A test, is it?” Matt raised an eyebrow and opened the folder, spreading the contents on the tabletop. There were photographs, and a small device with a cord and an earplug on one end — a recording of something, he assumed. He lifted the first picture and grunted softly.
“Picto-language — but a more modern variant, of an ancient dialect. Wow, these guys are good.” He looked up. “This is modern, right, not a copy of some earlier writing images?”
“Near as we can tell, it’s only a few months old.” She sipped again.
“Hmm. Looks Incan.” He snorted. “Looks Incan, Olmec, Sumerian, and a bastardized form of Mayan. In fact, it looks quite unique — more like art than language.”
Matt placed the photograph on the table and pointed to an image of a gross head with a tongue protruding. “The sign for eating, I think. Like Incan, but not quite right. It might have been once, but has now evolved into something quite different. Obviously idiographic, but I’m not sure about the phonetic relationships.” He sorted through each of the pictures of the language, nodding and muttering to himself from time to time.
He looked up at her and she nodded, raising her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.
Matt reached for the tiny earpiece and stuck it in his ear. He picked up the small silver box, pressed a button, and swiveled a small dial. As he listened he frowned slightly and lifted one of the photographs to glance at it before closing his eyes and tapping it on the table as he listened. “Glottal stops, clicks, whistles — a little like the African bushman, but longer consonants. I also detect the use of a morphosyntax a little like the local Pirahã tribe. Hmm, this’d take a while to unpick … but it could be done.”
“Well?” She drew the pictures back and rested her arched fingers on them.
“Well. That … is not a map.” He sat back.
“It’s not directions?” Carla frowned. “Godammit — we didn’t get the original. Okay, what is it then?”
“A shopping list and … a recipe, I think.”
* * *
“Think of it as the first ever master class in cooking.” Matt watched with amusement as the CDC woman’s face went from anger, to acceptance, and then on to humor, as she finally realized that the joke was on her.
“The danger of making assumptions, right?” She smiled ruefully for a second before getting serious again. “But you can read it?”
Matt spun one of the images around and pointed to the photograph. “Most of it. Look, the sign for fire, for eating, for a valley that’s either behind, or hidden, or underneath something. These symbols here mean flowers or plants, and these mean a wall, or barrier. I’m obviously not one hundred percent clear, but the context is that it’s a valley that’s hard to find or to get to, and might be blocked by a barrier. Okay, also the sign for bird, and — hmm, for teeth. That’s a little weird, teeth and bird together. It’d be better if I could see the original drawings, but based on what I can see, it’s no real location, and no explanation or cure for your problem.” He sat back. “I guess it doesn’t help much.”
Carla gathered up the photographs. “Well, it confirms two things; one we already suspected.” She slid the pictures back into the folder and finished her coffee.
“And the other?”
“The other is that you’re the real deal, and you’ll be coming with us.” She smiled without humor.
Matt drained his cup and set it down, not looking at her. “Yeah, well, about that. You see …”
“Professor Kearns, this …”
He held up his hand. “Now, I’d love to help, but …”
She leaned forward, cutting him off. “This is not a request.”
Matt gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m flattered that you think I’m the only one who can help you, but I’m not, and further, I’m just not available right now. Besides, I’m not sure I can do much more.” He sighed. “Look, I know this is important. I promise I’ll look at it as soon as I can. That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”
Carla smiled, flashing a line of perfect white teeth. But there was little goodwill in the smile — more a shark-like menace.
“Golly … you promise?” The smile disappeared. “Professor Kearns, under the national sequestration laws, if we, the CDC, determine there is an imminent threat to the domestic American population, we have the right, and the capability, to sequester any item, asset, record, or individual for as long as we deem necessary.” She stared him down, as confident and assertive as a New York tax attorney going in for the kill.
Matt swallowed, suddenly realizing that the attractive woman with the big gray-blue eyes was used to getting her own way.
She smiled again, this time warmer and softer. “Please, Professor Kearns — Matthew — this is important. I really want you to come with us by choice, not because we made you. And by the way, it’s not my problem, it’s our problem.”
Matt knew she had thrown him a bone to make him feel in control, just as he knew that the hand squeezing his balls wasn’t his own.
Carla pulled her chair a little closer to the table and reached across to grasp his forearm. “Matt, I mentioned we are in a race … it’s against the clock. An opportunity to be placed right at the source has arisen and the CDC intends to take it. Believe me, it took a lot of arm-twisting to make this happen, so we can’t afford to be indeci
sive right now.”
“But what do you expect me to do? Talk to these Ndege Watu? It would take me weeks to even learn the rudiments of their language. The writing, I can probably pick up, but anything else? I’ll need more time.”
“We leave in twenty-four hours. You can study on the way.” She stood, tucking her folder under one arm.
Matt shook his head. “Not a chance. I’ve got to …”
“No, you don’t. You’re already packed, and the university has agreed to grant some additional leave while you are on secondment to the CDC.” Her gaze was unwavering.
Matt’s mouth was hanging open, but no words came as his mind worked like a wheel spinning in soft sand.
Carla smiled as a dark Taurus pulled up to the curb.
Finally, Matt’s brain started working. “What about Meg? She’s staying with me.”
“By now, she’ll be on her way home.” The gentle, confident smile remained in place.
The Taurus’s side door opened and a young woman exploded out, yelling something back into the car. She marched down the street toward Matt, shoulders hunched and fists balled. He noticed that her feet were still bare.
“On her way home, you say? You obviously don’t know Megan.” Matt noticed that Carla’s smile had dropped and her brows had drawn together.
The driver got out of the car and opened his arms, hands out, and shrugged. Carla swore.
“Just what the hell is going on, Matt? This goon walked into the house and just started putting your stuff into suitcases. Then he gave me this, and told me to get dressed and go.” She threw a rumpled piece of paper onto the table. Matt picked it up and unfolded it — it was a coach class ticket back to Asheville.
“Coach? Hmm, clearly money’s no object.” Matt looked from Carla to Megan. ‘Honey, meet Carla Nero. Carla, this is Megan Hannaford. Carla here has asked whether we would like to take a little trip with her.”
The CDC woman’s face was like stone as she kept her eyes on Matt. “Don’t do this, Matt. It’s not a game.”
Matt swallowed; the woman’s eyes were like lasers. In for a penny, he thought. “You want my help — she comes.” Matt knew that inviting Megan might make his involvement too irritating or difficult — it could be a deal breaker. At least, that’s what he hoped. “She has an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient writing styles, is an excellent biologist, has walked the Kokoda track, and she’s probably fitter than both of us put together.” He shrugged. “I need her.”
