Mind Virus

by Charles Kowalski

  “Southwest,” he said.

  Stephanie’s green eyes shot darts at him.

  “So be it,” said Browning, and relayed the instructions over the phone.

  For the next two hours, Fox trained his eyes by turns on the television screen and the paperwork on his desk, studiously avoiding eye contact with Browning, Newcomb, Mendes, Stephanie, or anyone else.

  The car made its way along Route 23, past Lake Tharthar, the giant teardrop in the middle of the desert. Eventually, it turned west and rolled into downtown Ramadi, along the road the Americans referred to as “Michigan.” Rather than try to learn the Arabic names for all the streets, they tended to rename them after American states—or, lamentably often, fallen comrades.

  It approached a large building, or rather two buildings connected in a T-shape. From the front building, which abutted the main road, they saw several cars and pedestrians coming and going. The car they hoped was Jaffari’s, however, turned into a narrow side street and steered up to the other building in back.

  “Zoom in,” Browning ordered over the phone. A minute later, the building on the screen came into clearer view.

  “Vasily, does that look like a germ factory to you?” Browning asked.

  “Sir, a bioweapons plant isn’t like a nuclear reactor. There’s no telltale sign that you can spot from the air and say ‘That’s it.’ But…” she directed her laser pointer at the roof of the outbuilding, “those bifurcated plenums could be ventilation ducts for a high-containment facility.”

  “That sign out in front,” Fox said. “Any way to zoom in on it from an angle, and see what it says?”

  “It’s going to say ‘AQI Biological Weapons Facility,’” said Newcomb, “in big English letters. Is that what you’re expecting?”

  Fox had no idea what he was expecting, but kept his eyes on the screen as Browning relayed his request over the phone. The image moved, the viewing angle shifted, and the lens focused in on the sign. It read, in Arabic and English: Ar-Ramadi Children’s Hospital and Vaccination Center.

  “My God,” Fox said. “What if it really is what it says it is?”

  “It doesn’t make sense,” said Stephanie. “You wouldn’t have a vaccine production plant in the middle of a populated area. You have to work with live viruses, and an accident could infect the entire town. The Soviets learned that the hard way.”

  “You wouldn’t have a bioweapons plant there either, for the same reason.”

  “Unless that was part of your strategy, to make sure the other side couldn’t take it out without massive civilian casualties.”

  “Not good news for us either way, then.”

  “I say we just blow the whole thing and let their Allah sort them out,” Newcomb contributed. Fox decided not to rise to it.

  Colonel Matthews, the base commander, appeared at the doorway. This was a rare occasion, but all eyes were so fixed on the screen that it was several seconds before someone noticed him and rapped out, “Attention.”

  “Fox, you’re here,” he said, brandishing his cell phone. “I have the commander of a strike team out of Camp Blue Diamond on the phone. He needs to know if you’re sure of your intel.”

  “As sure as I can be, sir.”

  “Let your word be either ‘Yes, yes’ or ‘No, no,’ Fox,” he said sharply. “The Special Forces are standing by. Are you confident enough to send them in?”

  Fox became acutely aware that he had replaced the live feed as the cynosure of all eyes in the room. He took a deep breath and said a silent prayer.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Matthews spoke into his phone. “Affirmative. You have a go mission.”

  Camp Blue Diamond was just on the outskirts of Ramadi, so the journey was short. Within minutes, Humvees began to roll into the frame, taking positions at the crossroads, cutting off access to the hospital. Then came the rotor blades of two Black Hawks.

  “Praise be to the Lord my Rock,” Matthews intoned, “who trains my hands for war and my fingers for battle. He is my fortress and my shield, who subdues nations under me.”

  Psalm 144. But Fox had a verse from a different Psalm in mind: Lord God Almighty, may those who hope in you not be disgraced because of us. May those who seek you not be put to shame because of us.

  Suddenly, the roof of the outbuilding came alive. A door burst open and armed men poured out, taking positions at the chest-high concrete wall, opening fire with Kalashnikovs.

  The Black Hawks returned fire with their M60 machine guns. Some of the figures on the roof hunkered down behind the wall. Those who were not fast enough fell backward and lay motionless.

  At ground level, a mad hejira was in progress. Children were pouring out of the exits, some running, some hobbling on crutches, some offering a shoulder to those too weak to walk by themselves. Some of the larger figures stood still, presumably doctors and nurses trying to see to the safety of their patients.

  A rocket-propelled grenade lanced through the air. One of the Black Hawks lurched, barely avoiding it. The trail of smoke led back to the window of one of the surrounding buildings.

  Fox held his breath. It suddenly looked frighteningly likely that the feature they were watching was about to turn into a sequel to Black Hawk Down.

  A second RPG shot by, this one from the opposite direction.

  Browning swore. “They’ve got shooters in all the buildings around the hospital. Even if our boys can clear the roof and land, they’ll be big juicy targets.”

  It soon became evident that the commander in Ramadi had come to the same conclusion.

  The helicopters backed off. A shadow passed over the scene, followed shortly by a flash that momentarily turned the whole screen white. When they could see the image again, thick black smoke was billowing from the building behind the hospital.

  Then the shock wave knocked down the nearest wall of the hospital building itself. The roof caved in, followed by the remaining walls. Within a minute, the entire compound was a pile of rubble, spewing enough dust and smoke to block the sun over Ramadi.

  The helicopters turned and fled.

  “Dear God,” Fox murmured, “what have we done?”

  19

  LONDON

  SUNDAY, APRIL 5

  EASTER SUNDAY

  The ringing of Donovan’s phone brought Fox’s attention sharply back to the present.

  “Donovan here. Y es. What? My God! Just a moment.”

  He put down the phone and turned to Fox. “They say he’s got the place wired with incendiary bombs. He’s threatening to set them off unless his demand is met.”

  “What’s his demand?”

  “He wants to see you.”

  “What? Me?”

  “He asked for you by name.”

  A few minutes ago, he had been eager to leap into the action. But on hearing these words, he felt as though all the air had just escaped from his body.

  He swallowed hard. “All right.”

  Donovan spoke into his phone. “Just a minute. He’s coming.”

  “I don’t suppose you have a spare suit?” Adler asked.

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Reflexively, Fox made the sign of the cross. The academic in him noted that action with detached interest. A scholar of religions spends years immersing himself in different traditions, searching for the universal truth that unites them all. And yet, when danger threatens, he immediately calls on the Divine by the names he learned in childhood.

  He got out of the car, climbed the steps to the door, and passed through.

  The entrance hall seemed better suited to a museum than a house, with a chandelier hanging from a high ceiling surrounded with intricate moldings, and a marble-topped table supporting a bronze bust of Darwin. He passed through a pair of double doors into a living room about the same size as his entire apartment. Persian rugs on the marble-tiled floor, candelabra suspended from an inlaid ceiling, floral wallpaper, brocade curtains, chairs that looked like thrones…every square inch was ornamen
ted, with no rest for the eyes anywhere.

  The officers’ protective suits made them look like invaders from the future. Their weapons were all pointed at an armchair, next to the mammoth fireplace that showed no signs of ever having been used. In the chair sat a young man, blond and blue-eyed, who looked as though he had stepped out of a recruiting poster for the Wehrmacht and into the pages of a Selfridges catalog. The glass-topped table in front of him was laid with a teapot, two cups on saucers, and a plate of biscuits. He balanced a tablet computer on his crossed knees, and on the table next to him were a remote control, a video camera on a desk-sized tripod, and a pulse oximeter wired to a clip on his fingertip.

  “Mr. Fox, welcome! I’m so glad you could come! Please, have a seat.” He gestured to the sofa with a delighted smile, as if Fox were an old friend who had traveled all the way from America to see him. As if it were just the two of them for afternoon tea. As if he didn’t have the muzzles of half a dozen assault rifles pointed at his head.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Fox seated himself on the sofa.

  “Do please help yourself,” Gottlieb urged, nudging the plate of biscuits in Fox’s direction. He hefted the teapot one-handed, filled a cup, and looked up to address the SO15 team. “Give us the room, if you please, gentlemen.”

  The officers remained motionless, their guns unwavering.

  “Come now, gentlemen, what’s to be gained by posturing? We all know you aren’t going to shoot me. I apologize for repeating myself, but indulge me for a moment as I fill in our new arrival.” With his right hand, he gestured to the device attached to his left. “This device will be triggered if the oximeter fails to register a pulse. I call it the next-generation dead man’s switch. Tested and proven, I really must remember to apply for a patent. If triggered, it will detonate several incendiary devices around the house. I would really rather not have to use it. This house is a splendid example of Queen Anne architecture and it would be a great shame to destroy it. But I will, if you insist upon leaving me no alternative.”

  The heads of the officers turned to look at the one in the lead, who nodded. With cautious steps, guns still trained on Gottlieb, they retreated back toward the vestibule.

  “That’s more like it,” said Gottlieb. He pushed the tea saucer toward Fox, who left it untouched on the table.

  “Oh, go on, go on! I assure you there are no viruses in it. After all, we Englishmen always insist on having our tea properly boiled, and there aren’t many organisms on this planet that can survive that.” As if to prove his point, he poured a cup for himself, and had a sip.

  “What have you done with Emily?”

  “That’s rather a familiar way to refer to another man’s wife, don’t you think? I assure you, she’s fine. No thanks to you, for failing to keep our gentlemen’s agreement.”

  “I don’t remember agreeing to anything.”

  “I could have killed the pair of you for that. But I couldn’t pass up the chance to meet the man who fared so poorly in a debate with my esteemed mentor, yet still fancied himself a worthy adversary for me.” He took a sip of his tea. “Well, I suppose I should say congratulations. You guessed my riddles—all but the last one.”

  “Suppose I told you I got that one too? What’s my prize? Will you let Emily go?”

  “The rewards aren’t quite so lavish in this game, Mr. Fox, but at least you’ll have my great admiration.”

  “Isaiah, chapter 23, verse 13.”

  Gottlieb set down his teacup. “Well done, Mr. Fox. Very well done indeed.” He gave Fox the kind of benevolent smile that a chess grandmaster might when acknowledging a clever move by his novice opponent, even as the game was nearing its end and the best the challenger could hope for was a stalemate.

  “ ‘A prophecy against Arabia.’ It’s the only reference to Arabia in the Bible, and it didn’t take a genius to see where your next target would be. Mecca, during the Hajj.”

  “Well reasoned. No wonder you were able to wreak such havoc on my vaccination campaign.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  “Naturally. Religion is the smallpox of the mind, and I am its Jonas Salk. You know how a vaccine works, right? A milder virus protects against a more serious one. Variola minor kills one out of a hundred, but gives the other ninety-nine lifelong immunity to Variola major, which kills one in three. Significantly better odds, wouldn’t you say?”

  “And Zagorsk? Which kills two out of three, and destroys the brain of the third? You call that mild?”

  “Well, I’m sure you remember that lovely September morning in your country, when twenty people infected with the God virus brought about the deaths of three thousand. That’s a mortality rate of fifteen thousand percent! If we are ever to take the next step in our evolution, then this virus needs to be eradicated from the face of the earth.”

  “If you have such faith that the species is destined to evolve beyond religion, then why do you need to interfere in the process? Why not just let evolution take its course?”

  “Because the troublesome thing about the God virus is that it doesn’t usually kill its host. And when it does, it has a way of taking others along with it. But most carriers can go on infecting others over a lamentably long life. So, a more…shall we say, direct intervention was required. However, I reasoned that the hosts shouldn’t mind.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “One of the curious properties of this virus is that it’s been known to take away the fear of death. Just as the rabies virus can make a smaller animal bite a bigger one, even at the cost of its life, so the God virus can make its host march willingly into the jaws of death if that will help it propagate itself. It is, in fact, perhaps the only virus in history that the infected have willingly chosen to die rather than be cured of. And other hosts actually admire them, calling them ‘martyrs’—as though there were anything remotely admirable about treating your life as worth less than an infantile delusion. What about you, Mr. Fox? Do you admire martyrs?”

  “It depends,” Fox replied cautiously.

  “On?”

  “On the cause they’re martyred for.”

  “What would you consider a worthy cause?” Gottlieb turned his tablet around so that the screen faced Fox. “If I said I would kill you unless you said these words, what would you do?”

  Fox read the words on the screen. “You must be joking. Trying to make converts by forcing people to recite some creed? Taking a page from the Spanish Inquisition?”

  “That’s right. Poetic justice, don’t you think?”

  “And if I refused, what would you gain by killing me? You think that killing people will destroy their ideas? How well did that work for Pontius Pilate? How well did it work for…do you even know the name of the man who shot Gandhi?”

  “Nathuram Godse. Lucky for India that he did his deed before that ridiculous fakir could spread his backward philosophy any further. Now, would you say these words if I told you I would let Ms. Harper go free if you did?”

  Fox hesitated. “You should know that when dealing with lunatics like you, I always assume every word out of your mouth is a lie until proven otherwise.”

  “A useful policy, I’m sure. Now, would you say them if I told you I would kill her if you didn’t? Would you insist upon testing my honesty in that case?”

  Fox took another glance at the screen, as his mind searched frantically for ways to stall for time. “Why is it so important for you to hear me recite this creed of yours?”

  “Because your sort, Mr. Fox, are the most dangerous of all.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You preach understanding and tolerance among different religions. You believe yours is the path to peace, do you not?”

  “I do.”

  “Do you know what the Soviets found when they tried to weaponize the Ebola virus? They couldn’t make it into an effective weapon, because it worked too well. It killed its hosts before they could spread it very far. You see the paradox
? If it were less deadly, it would be more dangerous.”

  Gottlieb leaned so far forward that the cord on the pulse oximeter strained alarmingly. “You, Mr. Fox, are helping the virus mutate into its most insidious strain. Reconciliation among religions is the last thing our species needs. If the Christians, Jews and Muslims want to kill one another, then by all means let them. That’s what we call ‘natural selection.’ But you spread the lie that if only different strains of the virus could coexist, the host would be healthy again. Utterly illogical, of course, but people believe you. They need to know that you have finally recognized this virus for the menace it is.”

  Gottlieb leaned back again. “I saved one last little bit of Zagorsk solution, in a canister in the guest room now occupied by Ms. Harper.” He poised his finger over the remote control. “With a touch of this button, I can release it. Unless you say the words. In five…”

  Just say them. A few words, spoken under duress. They mean nothing.

  “Four.”

  Yet how many throughout history have willingly faced prison, torture and death rather than say them? Do you have that kind of courage?

  “Three.”

  If it were only your own life on the line, that would be a different matter. But if you make the wrong call now, Emily will be the one who suffers.

  “Two.”

  “Stop!” Fox closed his eyes and heaved a deep sigh. “You win. I’ll say it.”

  A triumphant grin spread across Gottlieb’s face. “You’ve restored my faith in humanity, Mr. Fox.” He reached for the video camera. “You’re going live.”

  ...

  Emily started as the television screen on the wall suddenly came to life. She craned her head to see the screen. Like a supernova, her heart swelled with radiant heat when she saw Fox’s face—and then, on hearing the first words out of his mouth, imploded into a cold, dense lump drifting in empty space.

  “After careful consideration, I have concluded that the human race has been deluded by religion for far too long. The theory of God cannot be proven on any rational grounds. And the practice of religion is responsible for virtually all the evil in the world, and no good that could not be better achieved by other means. The time has come for Yahweh, Jesus, and Allah to join Ra, Zeus, and Odin in the dustbin of history, and for humankind to evolve into a new age of reason.”