Mind Virus

by Charles Kowalski

  “I’m touched by your concern. But my church doesn’t exactly teach women to be meek and submissive. The husband of any one of them could tell you that.”

  “I understand how difficult it can be to overcome the trauma of child abuse.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Having frightening myths impressed on your mind as if they were true, before you were old enough to tell fantasy from reality. I know what a painful thing it is to have your childhood worldview shattered.”

  “Would it shatter your worldview if I told you my family wasn’t religious? That I came to it on my own?”

  He gave her a look that mingled concern with fascination, like a researcher of exotic diseases finally seeing his first case in a live patient. “So, such a specimen really does exist. An otherwise rational adult who’s deluded herself into believing there’s some creature up in the sky, reading our thoughts and watching what we do in the bedroom. Who created this earth as a home for us, with all its hurricanes, earthquakes, and tsunamis. Who tells us, ‘I love you. Love me back or I’ll torture you for all eternity.’ Have I got it right?”

  “I think you meant to say ‘creator’ rather than ‘creature.’ And I might change one or two details.”

  “That he loves us, for example?”

  “That one I’d grant you.”

  “How, then, do you account for the existence of the virus?”

  Emily had no ready answer for that one. She took a spoonful of soup to buy time to think.

  “Have you ever seen someone die from Ebola?” he continued.

  “No.”

  “Viral exsanguination. Do you know what that means? Your internal organs melt together into a bloody soup, which leaks out all your orifices until there isn’t enough blood left in your body to keep it alive. Is that a way you would care to die, if you had a choice in the matter?”

  “Not particularly.” She set her spoon down. She had suddenly lost her appetite for soup.

  “So tell me: If this world was created by a God who loves us, then whence come these little creatures who can only perpetuate their own lives by destroying ours, in what you would probably call quite a gruesome way?”

  When Emily made no answer, he continued, “You see, if you look at the world from a rational point of view, the question doesn’t merit a second thought. The virus’s ability to replicate has evolved beyond the host cell’s ability to fend it off. No question of right or wrong, meaningful or meaningless. Nature simply works according to its laws, and no prayer, no divine intervention can stop it.”

  With that last sentence, the ice in his eyes melted slightly. It suddenly occurred to Emily to wonder how someone so young could be living in this luxurious house, presumably alone.

  She suddenly recalled Leila’s words in Tel Aviv: For every story heard, an act of violence is prevented.

  “Did you…did you lose someone you love?”

  He looked down, his face impossible to read. She kept her expression of mild concern, trying to betray none of her steadily mounting fear that she had asked a forbidden question, like Bluebeard’s wife innocently inquiring about the little room in the cellar.

  “I sat by my mother’s hospital bed,” he finally said, “day after day, watching her grow weaker and weaker from pneumonia. Of course, my father made sure she had the best medical care money could buy. And of course, he prayed. And he told me to pray. And like a child, I did, without questioning. And given my father’s connections, I’m sure that all the vicars and all the bishops, all the way up to the Archbishop of bloody Canterbury, were praying for her too. And did it work? Did it save her?”

  The silence in the room answered his question.

  “Where was your God then, Ms. Harper?” he inquired in a soft voice that could not have chilled her more if she had heard it out of the darkness behind her when she thought she was alone in the house. “Tell me! Where was he?”

  The sudden force of his voice, coming so soon after his near-whisper, pushed Emily back against her pillows. She could think of no answer she could give that had any chance of satisfying him.

  Don’t play his game. Don’t try to engage him intellectually. Speak to his heart instead.

  “It must have torn you apart when you lost her. I can feel how much you miss her. And how angry you were when all your prayers went unanswered.”

  He closed his eyes, and for a moment, Emily thought he might be on the verge of tears. But when he opened them again, the blue ice had frozen solid again. “You’d think that would be enough evidence to convince any rational person that there was no such entity as God. But my father kept blathering on about how God must have had some ‘purpose’ unknown to us. Well, let me ask you this, Ms. Harper: If you saw someone murder the mother of a ten-year-old boy in front of his eyes, just how much would you care what his ‘purpose’ was?”

  “You felt that your faith had been betrayed.”

  “Wouldn’t you, Ms. Harper? Wouldn’t anyone? But my father was infected beyond all hope of recovery. He carried on praying, going to church every Sunday, and squandering his fortune on so-called ‘charity.’ When he last revised his will, he was planning to use ninety percent of his estate to endow a foundation. Ninety percent of what was rightfully mine! And I could almost have allowed it, if it had been, say, a university. He could have built one to rival Oxford or Cambridge, if he had so chosen. But do you know what he took a fancy to do instead?”

  Emily kept silent, prompting him with her eyes to go on.

  “He decided that the best use of his money would be to set up free clinics and dispensaries, all over the developing world. He got the notion into his head that every child born, whether in South Kensington or some village in the Kalahari, should have an equal chance at life. Can you imagine? Just what this planet needs—more mewling mouths to feed.”

  He paused and looked at her as though expecting her to share his indignation. It was all she could do to keep her internal reaction from showing in her face.

  “And he had a long list of medical students,” he went on, “from the finest universities, all ready to volunteer. Seducing the best and brightest into throwing their talents away on those whom nature had clearly marked for destruction. This is the cardinal error of your Christianity, Ms. Harper. It elevates compassion for the poor, the weak, all of nature’s mistakes, to the level of virtue. When in fact, their job is to die out and free the world’s resources for the strong. And the purest form of ‘charity’ is to help them do it.”

  For a moment, Emily could almost smell the smoke of burning sulfur. She struggled to think of a suitably neutral reply, and to keep her voice from giving away her true feelings. “I can see you’re angry with him for spending his fortune on a cause you didn’t agree with.” She cast her eyes around the room and its opulent furnishings. “So what I’m seeing here is just ten percent of what would otherwise have been your inheritance?”

  “This?” Her captor chuckled. “Oh, no, Ms. Harper. My father passed on before his solicitor ever saw the revised will. Most unexpected and most unfortunate.”

  ...

  A fanfare of organ and trumpets echoed through the nave of Westminster Abbey, adding to the thousand years’ worth of sacred sound those stones had already absorbed, as the royal procession made its way over the black and white tiles. The stern-faced, shaven-headed verger, in his red and black velvet robe, led the way. Next came the Nearest Guard, the Queen’s ceremonial bodyguards, in gold-trimmed red tunics and white-plumed helmets. The light flashed impressively from the blades of their halberds as they marched in step, but Fox wondered whether they understood the true nature of the foe they were facing, and how little use their medieval weapons would be against him.

  The choir, in their red cassocks with ruffled white collars, filed into the tiered wooden seats of the quire. The red-shaded lamps at each place made it look like a study for forty scholars: the thirty boys in the children’s choir and the ten professional singers known as Lay Vicars.


  And then came the Queen, the Duke of Edinburgh, the Prince of Wales, and an assortment of princes and princesses in their Easter finery, floral ornaments piled high enough on their hats to block the vision of anyone sitting behind them. They assumed their red velvet seats, set to one side at the foot of the sanctuary steps, presumably to remind them that they were in the presence of Someone even higher than they.

  Fox stood at his post in the transept, scanning the crowd. The flat-screen televisions mounted on the pillars gave him a partial view of the quire and nave. The walls surrounding him were lined with busts and reliefs of various worthies from British history, all of whom seemed to have their eyes on him, sending a message across the centuries: “Get it right this time, can’t you?”

  The Archbishop of Canterbury spread his hands and began the liturgy. “This is the day when our Lord Jesus Christ passed from death to life. Throughout the world, Christians celebrate the awesome power of God. As we hear his word and proclaim all that God has done, we can be confident that we shall share his victory over death and live with him for ever.”

  Fox wished he could be as confident of victory as the Archbishop. He was grateful for the concealment that the cowl provided, but it hung down over his eyes and obscured his view. Presumably it was meant to shut out distractions and temptations, and keep the wearer’s attention focused solely on the next step. If only he knew what that would be.

  The liturgy proceeded through the readings, the sermon, and the prayers of intercession. As the intercessor started to read out the prayer concerns, Fox reached through the slit in his habit that allowed access to his pocket. He pulled out his notebook and pen, scribbled a few hasty lines, and handed the notebook to Donovan.

  “When I give you the signal, could you read this out loud?”

  Donovan looked at the paper. “The hell?”

  “Let’s just give it a try.”

  “We commend to your fatherly goodness,” the intercessor intoned, “all those who are any ways afflicted or distressed, in mind, body or estate. Comfort and relieve them in their need, give them patience in their sufferings, and bring good out of all their afflictions.”

  In the ensuing moment of silence, Donovan spoke up, in a voice that resounded throughout the cathedral.

  “Let us pray for all orphans who lost their parents in acts of violence, and for all children, especially those here with us today. Keep them safe from all illness, Lord, and do not let anyone do them any harm.”

  There were scattered whispers throughout the nave. Free intercessions from the congregation were technically allowed under the prayer book rubrics, but to offer one in front of the Royal Family and a full cathedral required a degree of boldness well outside the usual Anglican range. Fox only hoped that Aidan would understand the coded message: We’re on to you.

  The choir sang the offertory anthem: Palestrina’s Sicut Cervus. “As the deer longs for flowing streams, so longs my soul for you, O God.” The alto voices soared up to the vault, soon to be overtaken by the sopranos that sounded as though they could carry the melody all the way up to heaven, until the tenor and bass voices of the adult Lay Vicars joined in to bring them back down to earth. This was a piece that, under ordinary circumstances, could lift Fox to the sky on a white cloud, but now he wondered whether he would ever be able to listen to it the same way again.

  Don’t let them distract you, Fox admonished himself. Focus on the task at hand. But his gaze kept returning to the choir. Soon, his conscious mind registered what his subconscious must have noticed first: One of the younger Lay Vicars was holding his score with trembling hands. Even in the chill of the cathedral, he was sweating. His eyes were blinking rapidly, and darting glances out to the congregation, while all the other singers were duly dividing their attention between the sheet music and the director.

  Peg’s voice echoed in his ears: He’d a fine voice on him, to be sure.

  She had mentioned that Aidan had gone to a boarding school in Britain, but not which one. If it was the Westminster Abbey Choir School, he would be eligible to rejoin the choir as a Lay Vicar in adulthood.

  If Fox’s theory was correct, then he had to admit Chris Warndale certainly knew how to plan ahead. He had planted a sleeper agent in Westminster Abbey. Aidan, operating in his home country, would have had no need to smuggle his weapon past security on the day itself. He would have been in the Abbey for rehearsals constantly, and had ample opportunity to plant it ahead of time.

  But where could he have hidden it, so that even a thorough search by the Counter Terror Command had failed to find it?

  The anthem came to an end, and the Archbishop of Canterbury gave the opening acclamation of the Eucharist. “The Lord be with you.”

  “And also with you,” the congregation replied.

  “Lift up your hearts.”

  “We lift them to the Lord.”

  “Let us give thanks to the Lord our God.”

  “It is right to give thanks and praise.”

  “It is indeed right, it is our duty and our joy, at all times and in all places to give you thanks and praise, almighty and eternal God, through Jesus Christ your Son our Lord. By his death he has destroyed death, and by his rising to life again…he has restored to…to us…”

  The Archbishop’s voice broke off, and he looked down, his mouth and eyes wide with alarm.

  A wisp of smoke was rising from the hem of his cassock.

  As he stared at the rapidly expanding brown spot from which the smoke issued, it burst into flame.

  The Archbishop screamed. He jumped and whirled around in panic, which only spread the flames further. The figure behind the high altar looked like a fiery demon, spinning in a mad dance and flapping its golden wings.

  Shrieks erupted throughout the congregation. The verger grabbed the fire extinguisher at the base of the steps to the pulpit.

  Fox glanced back at the Lay Vicar. His breath was coming even faster, and his face was dripping with sweat. Like everyone else, his gaze was fixed on the scene, but unlike everyone else, he was not craning his neck to see. He knew what was about to happen.

  The verger pointed the extinguisher at the Archbishop’s vestments.

  The red cylinder flashed at Fox like a warning light. It would have been easy for Aidan to steal into the sanctuary when no one was watching, and replace the extinguisher with one that had been modified to carry a lethal load.

  “Stop!” Fox shouted. “The extinguisher’s poisoned!”

  The verger shot a disbelieving glance in his direction, and quickly returned to his task, aiming the nozzle at the Archbishop’s burning vestments.

  Fox stood paralyzed. If he set foot into the sanctuary, all the television cameras in the cathedral would capture his image for all the world to see. But if he held back, the verger would unwittingly spray the virus into the packed cathedral.

  The verger squeezed the lever.

  Nothing happened. He looked down at the extinguisher. The pin was still in place.

  Fox took a firm grip on his cowl to keep it from slipping and revealing his face, and ran for the altar.

  The verger pulled out the pin, took a grip on the lever, and aimed the nozzle again.

  Fox caught up to him and knocked the extinguisher from his hands. Together, they pulled the Archbishop to the floor and tried to smother the flames with his heavy brocade cope.

  A moment later, a firefighter came running in from outside, with an extinguisher of his own. Fox retreated, his cowl pulled low over his head, trying to keep his back to the television cameras.

  The Lay Vicar whom Fox had been watching jumped down from his seat in the quire. He ran through the arch under the organ loft, and turned when he reached the nave.

  “Don’t let him get away!” Donovan bellowed.

  The command was unnecessary. Several of the congregants were already converging on him. He found himself cornered between the wall and a blue-and-gold wrought iron gate, now shut.

  He fell to his knees. Set int
o the floor below him were two stone slabs, one black and one white. He prostrated himself on the white one, lowered his face to it, and kissed it, just as the police officers seized him and cuffed his hands behind him.

  “Sorry, old fool,” he said, gazing fondly at the stone as they led him away.

  Fox glanced at the stone. The inscription read:

  CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN

  BORN 12 FEBRUARY 1809

  DIED 19 APRIL 1882

  Fox ran down the aisle and out the door, with Adler and Donovan close behind. He reached the silver Mercedes Sprinter van parked on Dean’s Court, just as the officers were pulling Aidan aboard and getting ready to close the door.

  One of the officers held up a hand to stop him. “I’m sorry, Brother…”

  “Brother, my ass! I’m with the CIA!”

  He jumped aboard and seized Aidan by his white surplice. “Where’s Chris Warndale?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Bullshit!” He slammed Aidan into the wall of the van, with such force that his head whipped back against the metal. “He has a house in London. You know where, and you’re either going to tell me or watch what I’m going to do to you.”

  “I’m telling you, man, I don’t know!”

  The van’s back door opened wider to reveal Donovan and Adler.

  “Fox!” Donovan called.

  Fox pulled out his pen, and with his other hand, pried Aidan’s right eye wide open. The left eye had gone almost equally wide with fear.

  Fox held the point of the pen an inch away from Aidan’s eye. “One more ‘I don’t know’ out of you and you get an eye patch, two more and you get a white cane. Where is Chris Warndale?”

  Aidan’s mouth trembled, but no sound came out.

  “Five! Four! Three! Two! One!”

  “Now that’s what I call interrogation!” Adler said.