by Peter May
‘My friends, we have scattered the seeds of our own destruction to the four corners of the earth. Many of my former colleagues, I believe, now work for the new republics. Others are in the employ of the Russian Mafia. Yet more went abroad. To Iraq — Saddam paid well — and to other Arab countries. To India and Pakistan. Some are working for multinationals, others for entrepreneurs. I have heard that Arab terrorists would pay handsomely for some of that know-how. And who knows who else is out there itching to spend money on killing Americans with the superbugs we created.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Hrycyk muttered under his breath. ‘Jesus fucking Christ!’
Margaret looked at her hands. They were trembling. The picture Markin was painting of a world filled with abominable viral and bacterial creations, and a whole community of educated and intelligent people only too happy to unleash them, was as grotesque as he was himself.
Markin knew very well the effect he was having. A slow grin spread itself across his face as he took in their expressions.
The same question Margaret had asked earlier occurred to her again. ‘Why?’ she said.
Markin looked at her, perplexed. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did you do it? Break the Convention? Spend all those billions on creating biological weapons of mass destruction?’
Markin held out his hands, palms up, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Because we thought you were doing it, too,’ he said.
‘And we weren’t?’ Hrycyk asked.
Markin sighed. ‘Apparently not.’ He smiled. ‘I know — difficult to believe, isn’t it? We thought so, too.’ He shrugged again. ‘Although I doubt, as you people would claim, that it had anything to do with your moral superiority. More likely the fact that it would have been impossible for your government to spend the billions of dollars required without anyone knowing about it. The difference, I suppose, between democracy and totalitarianism. We could get away with it, you couldn’t. But I digress.’ And he leaned forward, tightly focused now. ‘The point is that the kind of gene technology that was employed on these Chinese immigrants is not the preserve of a handful of scientists at the cutting edge of their discipline. Any number of my former colleagues would have been capable of performing the kind of manipulation required. But not all of them would have been smart enough. Because make no mistake, what we are looking at here is a very clever piece of work. This has not been cobbled together by some half-baked terrorist. It is the work of a polished professional employing the kind of perverse logic we can only stand back and admire.’
Fuller spoke for the first time. ‘I can’t say I find much to admire in it, Mr. Markin.’ Margaret glanced at him. He looked grim.
‘Ah, but you must always respect your enemy,’ Markin said. ‘Admire him, even. Never underestimate him. In this particular instance, we are dealing with a mind of great ingenuity. Even the use of the Spanish flu virus is ingenious. Because there is no vaccine against it.’
‘So how did these people manage to get hold of the virus,’ Margaret asked, ‘if there were never any preserved live cultures?’
Markin was dismissive. ‘Oh, there have been several attempts to recover soft tissue and culture the live virus. There was one expedition to dig a bunch of miners out of the permafrost in Norway. Soft tissue was also recovered from the crew of a submarine trapped under the Arctic ice pack during the pandemic in 1918.’ He nodded toward the AFIP contingent. ‘Yet more found in an Eskimo grave in Alaska.’ He rubbed his jaw, and skin showered on to the table like snowfall. ‘Of course, none of them was able to culture live virus.’
‘Why would they want to?’ This from Hrycyk.
‘You have to understand, sir,’ Markin said, ‘that we know virtually nothing about why the 1918 flu was so virulent and so deadly. And many doctors believe that it is only a matter of time before a similar pandemic strikes again, that we are in fact merely in an interpandemic period. For medical science to be able to study the Spanish flu virus and to know what made it such a killer would go a long way to enabling us to protect ourselves against a future attack.’
‘But you haven’t answered the question,’ Margaret persisted. ‘If no one has been able to culture the live virus, where did it come from?’
Markin waved his hand dismissively. ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘You don’t need live virus. If you can retrieve a reasonably intact sample of the viral RNA from soft tissue, you can transcribe it to DNA. Amplify the DNA by adding it to genes in a bacteria called plasmids, then inject the plasmids into human or monkey cell cultures and bingo, you produce live virus. Effectively, you have cloned an identical replica of the original.’
‘Just like that,’ Hrycyk muttered, and had the situation not been so grave, Margaret would have laughed.
Markin was oblivious. ‘The Spanish flu was a particularly good choice,’ he said gleefully. ‘Usually a flu will attack the weakest in a community. The very young and the elderly. But the Spanish flu, for some reason, went for the fittest and strongest. Usually in the fourteen to forty age group. And it acted with extraordinary speed. It could reduce a strong, vigorous adult to a quivering wreck in a matter of hours, completely overwhelming the body’s natural defences. There are many, many accounts of how people were affected by it.
‘Usually influenza victims die of a secondary infection. Pneumonia. Which nowadays is treatable with antibiotics. But the Spanish flu acted so fast it killed its victims even before pneumonia set in. The virus caused an uncontrollable haemorrhaging that filled the lungs, and victims drowned in their own blood. It swept across the United States in little over seven days, in the process killing more Americans than would later die in the whole of the Second World War. In three months, worldwide, it is estimated that it killed between 30 and 40 million people. Only 9 million died during the four years of World War One.’
Markin took a long pause to let his facts and figures sink in. He held his audience absolutely in his thrall, and he knew it. He went on, ‘The Spanish flu was incredibly infectious. In 1918 American people stopped going out of their homes. If they did, they wore face masks. Shops were shut, public meetings were cancelled, funerals were banned. Some more isolated communities put armed guards on the roads into their towns and villages and shot anyone who approached. Today, with modern travel, increased communications, increased populations, the death toll would be devastating. We could be talking about hundreds of millions of people. Hospitals and public health services simply couldn’t cope. They would quickly break down. No one would be immune. Soldiers, police officers, health workers. They would all be as vulnerable as anyone else. A complete breakdown of law and order would almost certainly follow. Believe me, I know. We did a lot of research into the effects of a full-scale biological attack.’
He reached for a glass, and filled it with water from a jug, and drank while everyone sat in silence watching him. They knew there was more to come.
When he had emptied his glass, he ran a tongue over cracked lips and said, ‘One of the problems we had in the Soviet Union in developing efficient biological weapons was finding an effective method of delivery. Most organisms are obliterated in the blast generated by a warhead on impact. Creating some kind of aerosol spray fine enough to carry the bacterium or virus and be delivered by air was next to impossible. I have often heard promulgated a scenario whereby a small private plane flies over Washington DC releasing anthrax spores in an aerosol spray, like a fine crop duster. In this scenario, no one even knows it has happened, and millions inhale the spores and die. In truth that would be almost impossible to achieve. So fine would be the spray required that any remotely adverse weather conditions would disperse it and destroy its efficacy. There would be only a handful of victims. On the other hand, mankind has, built-in, the most efficient aerosol spray in existence — human breath. And in close contact with other human beings it is extraordinarily efficient at passing on infectious diseases. Coughing, sneezing, even just breathing in a confined space, will fill the air around you with yo
ur invisible, contaminated spray. You cough into your hand and you have coated it with the virus. You shake hands with someone else, or they handle a sheet of paper that you have touched and then rub their eyes or eat a sandwich. They are now infected. Almost nothing else in nature is as efficient at passing on disease as human beings themselves. Which, of course, makes people the perfect delivery system for a biological attack. And the illegal Chinese immigrants in our midst, ideal unwitting carriers. Trojan horses awaiting activation.’ He paused momentarily before delivering his coup de grâce. ‘And when their disease becomes active,’ he said, ‘it will be apocalyptic.’
* * *
As the meeting broke up, Margaret saw that Li had been cornered by Colonel Zeiss and they were in a huddle with Fuller and Hrycyk. Dr. Ward was making a hurried exit with the Commander’s secretary. As she turned to go after him, Mendez caught her arm. ‘Margaret…’
But she said, ‘I’m sorry Felipe, I’ll catch up with you later.’ And she hastened after the Armed Forces medical examiner. She called to him and caught up with him at the end of the corridor as the commander’s secretary flashed an electronic ID at a reader on the wall and the double fire doors ahead of them opened. Ward seemed irritated by Margaret’s pursuit. ‘What is it, Doctor?’ he asked irritably.
‘Where’s Steve?’
Ward’s face darkened. ‘We have received confirmation that Major Cardiff has been infected with the flu virus,’ he said grimly. ‘He’s been confined to the isolation ward here on the base until further notice.’
II
A young female orderly in green camouflage fatigues led her through a maze of corridors, fluorescent ceiling lights set at regular intervals reflecting off a shiny white floor. Hessian-lined walls were pasted with notices and posters. Electronic doors opened ahead of them as the orderly waved her magnetic ID. And then Margaret could hear the hubbub of voices, and at the end of the corridor the two women turned into an open area with an L-shaped desk, like the admitting desk in any hospital. Except that all the staff wore army camouflage. On her left, a door stood open to a room where pale blue protective biosuits hung in rows from hooks on the wall. On her right, the door to the isolation ward was firmly shut. It had a window at eyelevel, and beneath it a secure hatch where foodstuffs and other items were fed into the ward via a chamber that bathed everything in ultraviolet light. To the right of it, a two-way autoclave was built into the wall for the retrieval of potentially infected material. On the left, there was a door into the changing area that led to the decontamination showers, providing a germ-free airlock for staff entering and leaving the ward.
Margaret was trembling. She felt as if she might throw up at any moment. And she remembered the words Mendez had used to describe how he felt after each visit to this place. I always feel contaminated, he had said. She was an experienced doctor, but in that moment she knew how he felt, and she was almost overcome by an enormous sense of vulnerability. She became aware of the orderly talking to her. ‘This is Ward 200,’ she was saying. ‘Originally it was a part of the Walter Reed Military Hospital in Washington. In theory it’ll take four beds, but we have it set up with just one in each room. We haven’t had anyone in here for more than fifteen years.’ She indicated a unit mounted on the wall to the right of the door. ‘You can use this intercom to communicate with the patient.’ She pressed a buzzer and said, ‘Doctor, you got your first visitor.’
Margaret peered apprehensively through the window. There was an anteroom with white painted brick walls. To the left was the stainless steel door to the main decontamination shower. Through the back wall were doors leading to the two single-bed care rooms. Thick, corkscrewed yellow cables hung from the walls at regular intervals. Nursing and medical staff who entered the ward in their protective biosuits could plug into them and move around with independently supplied air. Steve was sitting on the edge of the bed in the room on the left. He was wearing white cotton pyjamas and what looked like paper slippers. Beyond him, Margaret could see banks of life-support equipment, monitors and cables. A cartoon was playing on a wall-mounted TV. He jumped off the bed and wandered through with a broad grin on his face. When he reached the intercom on his side of the glass, Margaret heard his voice crackle across the speaker. ‘What a relief, huh?’
Margaret frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, now that I know I have it, I can stop worrying about whether I’m going to get it. Which means I can do all my worrying about what’s going to trigger it.’
She felt tears pricking her eyes. ‘Oh, Steve…’
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Don’t get all soppy on me. If I’m going to get sick, this is probably the best place in the whole world to be. And it’s only the flu, after all. Did they tell you this is really part of Walter Reed?’ She nodded, afraid even to try to speak. He spread out his arms to either side. ‘So welcome to Wally World.’ Then he lowered his voice. ‘You know, they call this ward “The Slammer”. I’m beginning to think maybe I’m only here for failing to pay my parking tickets.’ And, as an afterthought, ‘Didn’t George Dubya make that a capital offence when he was Texas Governor? Good thing we’re in Maryland, or I could be on Death Row.’
There was something manic about his relentless attempts to be funny, as if perhaps in stopping for a moment reality might encroach. Margaret could only raise a pale smile. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’ she asked.
‘Books,’ he said. ‘Something to read. I’ve spent my life avoiding watching television, and that’s all they’ve got here. I’ve passed the last hour reading the instruction labels on every bit of equipment in the place. Not particularly edifying, but a cut above South Park.’ He flicked his head over his shoulder toward the TV set. ‘I had no idea that American humour had descended to the level of schoolboy vulgarity. Do you think we caught it off the British?’
Margaret couldn’t even bring a smile to her lips this time. ‘Anything else?’
‘Yeah, my personal stereo. It’s in my desk in the office. My tapes are on the bookshelf.’
‘They’ll not let me go rifling through things in your office, Steve,’ she said. ‘Can’t one of the guys get that stuff for you?’
He looked suddenly embarrassed. ‘Well…there was something else. I kind of don’t like to ask the guys, you know?’
Margaret couldn’t hide her surprise. ‘What could you ask me to get that you couldn’t ask the guys?’
He shrugged, and to her horror she saw tears filling his eyes. ‘I keep a picture on my desk. In one of those little silver frames. It’s my kid, you know? Little Danni.’ He tried to grin. ‘They’d probably think I was just being soft.’
Margaret looked at him, surprised that he would be embarrassed by a thing like that. Sometimes men could be strange about sharing their emotions with other men. As if it was somehow a sign of weakness. She would not have put Steve in that category. But, then, she realised, she had only known him a matter of days. In truth she didn’t really know him at all. All that she knew for certain was that he was vulnerable and scared and desperately trying to hide it — particularly from himself. ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’ll do that for you — if your boss’ll let me.’
It was Steve’s turn to be surprised. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t think he likes me much, Steve.’
‘Nah, he’s just a grumpy old bastard,’ Steve said. ‘He’s like that with everyone.’
But Margaret was not convinced. ‘So why doesn’t he wear a uniform? Or does he consider himself above all that?’
‘Oh, no. He doesn’t wear one because he’s not in the services.’
Margaret frowned. ‘How come? I mean, you are. And all the other pathologists.’
‘Yeah, but we’re all from different services. The Armed Forces medical examiner is a civilian; not answerable to any one service. So there’s no risk of bias.’
‘Well, he’s biased against me, I don’t care what you say.’ She knew that by just keeping him talking she was making him t
ake his mind off himself.
‘Well, if he is, I’m going to have to sort him out,’ Steve said. ‘Boss or no boss. And, I can hardly get in any worse trouble than I am already. Can I?’
Margaret grinned. ‘I guess not.’ And for a moment neither of them knew what else to say. Small talk had been exhausted. Then Margaret said, ‘Well, you’re just going to have to hurry up and get out of there. I don’t much care for men who break their promises.’
He half smiled, half frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You promised to take me to this little place you knew in Washington.’
His smile faded. ‘And I suppose the only reason you’d go now is because you felt sorry for me.’
It was a strange, unexpected slap in the face. But she supposed she deserved it. After all, it was only a matter of hours since she had turned him down for dinner that night. ‘I’d go,’ she said, ‘because I enjoy your company.’
He looked at her long and hard through the window, and she saw him bite his lower lip. He put his hand up on the glass, and she placed her hand on the other side of it, a mirror image, palm to palm. But there was no warmth or comfort in it. Just the cold hard surface of the glass.
‘I’m sorry, Steve,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’
His eyes filled again. He said, ‘You’ve no idea how lonely it is in here.’ He swallowed, fighting to control himself. ‘I’m scared, Margaret.’
