He remembered it well.
He sat and listened to the two men. The room was in the Ministry of Defense, but he had not been in it before. The office of the Minister of National Defense and Security was large and roomy, about twice as large as the entire microbiology laboratory three floors below. Machdi felt as if he were suspended in space—in the middle of a large glass cube. The conversation did not help to ease the illusion.
The president was smooth and condescending. “Dr. Machdi, how can we exist today without a program?”
The Minister was direct and impatient. “The Ministry of Defense, Dr. Machdi, does not employ a Microbiology Division to count the germs in our men’s rooms. We must join the twentieth century—become a military power that commands respect. Guns and tanks and infantry are no longer sufficient. We need something more. A nuclear weapon is for the moment beyond our means. In comparison, a biological warfare program is a more realistic consideration.
Machdi tried to choose his words carefully. “Gentlemen, all my life I have been a scientist. My contribution has been small, but it has been an honest effort which has brought some good to mankind and some recognition to our country and the rest of the Arab world in the field of microbiology.”
The minister interrupted him. “That is just the point. We know you have the talent. You are the man who can give us what we must have—a weapon we can use against our enemies as both a threat and a deterrent.”
“I was not aware that you were a proponent of the use of science for destruction.” Machdi fumbled for the words. “Much of science was founded here centuries ago. Must we destroy our heritage to destroy our enemies?”
“If our neighbors swallow us up, who will remember that we gave birth to science? Who will give a damn about our heritage? Whether our forefathers can sleep with their consciences and whether you can live with yours doesn’t concern me. Do you think that the biological warfare programs in the United States, in England, or across the Canal are run by men of science who have less conscience than you? Of course not! But they know that the most important thing is winning.” His voice became softer. “Believe it or not, it doesn’t really matter how.”
Though no great patriot, Ahmed Machdi loved his country. He was too old to fight. He could not judge whether the Minister’s words were partial truths. He still knew very little about what was happening in the world outside his laboratory, but he knew they would have their way. With him—or with his replacement. He wanted to save himself, to salvage his work, to insure his security for the few years remaining. He knew he could not refuse. He would find a way to compromise—with the Minister, with himself, and with science.
Machdi looked at the President. “Do you agree, Mr. President?”
The President did not look at Machdi. He did not speak. He merely nodded.
“So be it, then.” Machdi rose to leave. “If you want a biological warfare program, you shall have one. If we ever use it…”—he paused—“may the world forgive us—if it survives!”
At first it was easy.
He had more funds than he could use. He continued the research he was working on and merely added quarterly and annual reports to the Minister. The “biological warfare program” consisted of keeping duplicate records of certain experiments. After all, bacteria were bacteria—whatever their intended purpose. It all depended on how you looked at them. To Ahmed Machdi, an experiment in bacterial metabolism was just that, and no more; to the Minister and others like him, it might well be an exercise in weaponry. All it took was a change in a word, a phrase, or a sentence; the copy then could be marked “Top Secret” and sent to the Minister.
In truth, the papers sent to the Minister were no more secret than the published papers that reported their contents. Each part in itself deemed to be of scientific value was published in one of a variety of widely read journals. Only a jaundiced eye could recognize them for what they might be; only an adversary would think of putting the parts together.
As a year passed, and then two, Machdi became concerned. Rejuvenated by the renewed availability of money, his research flourished. But his fear grew that funds might be cut or even stopped if he did not produce something more for the Minister, and so he justified his work by manipulating the emphasis of the material contained in his reports. The Minister was interested in a weapon, not a Nobel Prize. Machdi wrote for him the words he wanted to read by learning the language and science of biological warfare. Without really trying, he gained expertise in what characterized a good biological weapon and about methods of delivery, camouflage and detection. He read about the effects of climate, population density, naturally acquired and artificially induced immunity, portals of entry, and contagion.
Some agents, he knew, were sublethal and meant to induce an illness that was self-limited or easily treatable; these could be used to incapacitate a foe for a period of time defined by the agent and by the host. Their use was difficult, because strict control was a prerequisite for success; a change in virulence could make a weapon lethal for the attacker as well as the victim.
Other agents were meant to kill—to kill small or large numbers of persons, animals or plants. These were somewhat simpler to use and control; being a little dead was just as good as being a lot dead. There were still limiting factors in their use. A good weapon killed only one’s enemies, not one’s friends. The duration of effect had to be flexible and finite—an island contaminated for a hundred years by the anthrax bacillus was of no value.
In general, conscience and peace of mind were not a problem to Machdi. The rationalization that mankind would never become sufficiently insane to unleash disease as a weapon of war satisfied him. He gained additional comfort form his knowledge that the Minister could, with the entire contents of his laboratory, only induce in the recipient a little nausea, vomiting and diarrhea.
Like most discoveries in science, Machdi’s discovery of the weapon was unplanned—a mistake; unlike some mistakes, however, it was at once recognized.
Machdi’s key to the study of bacterial metabolism lay in his ability to induce mutants—microorganisms that were different in some way from their parents. Mutations could be induced by a variety of methods, including radiation, antibiotics, or alteration of growth conditions to favor some characteristics and eliminate others. Machdi’s talent was his ability to alter his test organisms to answer the question each of his experiments was designed to ask.
He was working on a series of experiments on rapid adaptation for survival, with specific interest in how bacteria reacted when exposed to antibacterial drugs. He knew, for example, that some bacteria exposed to penicillin produced a substance, penicillinase, which cleaved the penicillin molecule at a specific site, thus rendering it ineffective. In other words these organisms could survive by inactivating the drug. He hypothesized that there must be many other ways by which bacteria could adapt to adverse conditions. If he could discover how a single cell adapted to change, perhaps the information obtained could be extrapolated to multicellular organisms—even to man. If so, the key to evolution would be his.
He spent months developing the mutant for this purpose. The first several experiments were so successful that Machdi was skeptical and paused to reevaluate his data. It was natural that he should check the test organism first. As each of its characteristics was tabulated, Machdi’s concern grew. When he looked at the sum total of his labors, he realized that in this very same mutant that might provide the key to evolution lay the potential to destroy with disease. He had unwittingly developed what he had so meticulously tried to avoid—a weapon. The mutant reproduced itself once every fifteen to twenty minutes under the proper experimental conditions. Its potential was terrifying.
In his fear, Machdi checked again. He had made no error. Had he spent forty years with no purpose other than to produce the perfect biological weapon, Machdi could not have surpassed what he had done in these few months.
Death in cotton-plugged test tubes lay in a rack before him. Only
he could decide.
* * *
For hours he sat in the same old wooden swivel chair with its worn straw cushion. What had been home and retreat for so many years was now the place he must test conscience. He failed his.
At this stage in his life, Ahmed Machdi feared oblivion more than death itself. As a philosophical friend had once said to him: “The dying man fears he will be forgotten more than he fears death. He reaches from the grave not to grasp at life but to try to scratch his name on the scrolls of time before the lid of his coffin closes and erases him forever.”
Machdi’s work was his legacy. The key to biologic adaptation—perhaps to evolution itself—could be his gift to mankind.
The mutant organism he had created was a necessary part of his plan. There might not be time to tailor another. To destroy it was to devaluate his existence and bankrupt his memory.
The Minister need not know. Time would solve this problem. Soon, Machdi felt, there would be no need for biological warfare programs. Several of the major powers were discussing termination of their programs. The Minister, he thought, would have no choice but to follow suit. Then he could return to his work. The mutant, preserved and hidden, would then be utilized for the purpose he had intended.
He carefully standardized his cultures and lyophilized them—they were frozen, dried, and sealed in sterile glass ampules. Bacteria in the numbers needed for each future experiment would be instantly available merely by reconstituting the contents of a vial with sterile nutrient broth. The ampules were stored at -70˚ C for preservation and safekeeping in a place he believed known only to himself. The records of the mutant’s birth, the tabulation of its characteristics, and his personal notes were carefully hidden in his safe. Among the contents of the safe also were the data from his last experiment—before he realized the dangerous potential of his finding. In it, Machdi had tested the sensitivity of these bacteria to a wide variety of antibacterial compounds. That the organism was resistant to all individually and sensitive only to a single combination of antibiotics rarely used in man had convinced Machdi of its lethality.
Conversion of the biological warfare laboratories in the United States to centers for cancer research in 1971 endowed his mutant with even greater potential, as did England’s renunciation of “all programs dealing with the production of weapons for biological or chemical warfare” in 1972. The status quo had been altered. Biological weapons had not been used because all the major powers had equal capability for this type of destruction, and each feared retaliation in kind. Now there was no longer a standoff. But as the psychoses of war were replaced by the neuroses of the conference table, Machdi felt more secure. He settled comfortably once more into the world he loved best—the world of science with its challenging goal of uncovering new knowledge.
Then, at last, came the honor that had eluded him for so long—the Pasteur Medal, awarded him for his “pioneer research into the development of artificially induced bacterial mutants.” The medal was to be awarded at the annual meeting of the International Society for Microbiology, meeting this year at the Royal French Academy of Sciences in Paris.
Despite the magnitude of the honor, he at first refused to go to the meeting; he had not been away from his laboratory since he had returned from school in London as a young man. The recognition of winning was sufficient for him; to be present personally to receive the medal would not enhance the honor.
He informed the Minister of his decision.
The Minister laughed. “I do not understand you, Machdi. Here you are awarded one of the most prestigious medals in your field, and you want to stay home.”
“I will accept in absentia. It’s all the same.”
“No, it’s not the same, Machdi. Go and receive your honor—in person. I want you to go. I insist.” He paused and sat back in his chair, seemingly examining his hands as he placed the fingertips of one against those of the other. “Besides, it will be good for the country. We can use some favorable publicity now.” He sat up suddenly and pressed the first button of the intercom on the credenza behind him. “Raoul, come in, please.”
He turned toward Machdi. “My secretary will make all of your travel arrangements.”
Machdi started to protest, and then thought better of it. As always, the Minister would have his way. It was settled—he would go.
Ahmed Machdi was tired. The trip had been exciting and satisfying, but he was glad to be home. He removed the medal from its walnut stand on the corner of his desk and turned it slowly between his fingers. All those years for such a tiny piece of gold. But he read his name engraved on the back for the hundredth time with undiminished satisfaction.
Absorbed in his thoughts, he did not hear the door of the laboratory open nor the footsteps behind him. He replaced the medal and turned back toward his laboratory bench. The dark shadow of a man and the cold, black muzzle of a machine pistol barred his way.
“Dr. Machdi?”
Ahmed Machdi felt no sensation but fear. He grasped the sides of the seat and braced his feet as the jeep swayed from side to side through the soft sand. He turned to look back at the fading lights of the city. The scene grew smaller as the jeep sped from it. He watched until the dust obscured it from his view, and then he turned to look ahead at the setting sun.
At first, surprise and fear had precluded rational thought; but now he had time to think, and the stinging pain of the desert sand driving against his cheeks stimulated his mind. He knew his captors, and the knowledge terrified him. To a logical man like Machdi, the guerrillas were the antithesis of all he believed in. But until this moment they had belonged to another world. Suddenly all of this had changed.
The word “Terror” was written in bold red Arabic letters across a white sheet behind the desk. The flickering light from an oil lamp on a small wooden table in the corner of the room cast the shadow of the man across the makeshift banner.
Ahmed Machdi studied the man in the oppressive silence that now enveloped them. There was no uniform—he had always thought all terrorists wore olive drab fatigues and were laden with grenades and bullets. This man was clean-shaven and neatly groomed; he wore an impeccable white linen suit with a red orchid in the lapel and a red silk handkerchief in his breast pocket. His features were smooth and clean, and his dark skin enhanced the bright teeth now visible as he began to smile.
“Welcome, Dr. Machdi,” he said. “I am Josef Kassim. My hearty congratulations upon your receipt of the Pasteur Medal. It is no small honor—one the Arab world can be proud of. It is a distinct privilege for me to meet such a distinguished scientist.” He paused and clapped his hands. “We shall have food and wine as we talk. You must be hungry after your long journey.”
Machdi refused both when they were set on a small table before him. His host talked as he ate.
“Relax, my friend. We will not harm you.” He saw Machdi glance at the banner behind him and smiled. “That is for our enemies; you are a friend.”
“I do not know you or your friends, nor do I wish to be classified as such.” Machdi was surprised at his courage. “I simply wish to return to my home, my laboratory and my work.”
“And you shall. You shall. As soon as we have finished our little talk. But do have something to eat.” He paused and smiled. “Ah, I understand. Do not worry. This is not the last meal of the condemned man. Please eat.”
Machdi started to shake his head. Suddenly he realized how parched his mouth was from the ride through the desert. “Perhaps a little wine.”
“Good.” Kassim continued to eat. Finally he pushed back his chair, wiped his mouth with the red handkerchief, and lit a cigarette.
“You are a peaceful man, Dr. Machdi. You have said as much yourself. The fact that your country seeks peace at the price of honor does not disturb you. But peace for us will come only when we have what we want. And we must take it now—now when the enemy least expects it. We have convinced several of our friends to join us. We shall be ready to move very soon.” He paused
, drew deeply on his cigarette, and exhaled the smoke slowly.
“That is why you are here. To come right to the point, the time has come to use the weapon you have hidden so jealously in your laboratory.”
Machdi’s courage deserted him, but Kassim continued as if he did not notice the scientist’s sudden pallor.
“A biologic weapon such as you possess can bring us victory.”
Machdi remained silent He was puzzled. How had Kassim learned about the weapon? From the Minister?
As if in answer to his unspoken questions, Kassim reached into the middle drawer of his desk, withdrew a folder and handed it to Machdi.
Machdi opened the folder.
“As you can see,” said Kassim, “those are photostats of your laboratory notebook—the one you did not mention in your reports to the Minister of Defense. I do not wish to belabor the point, nor do I wish to waste your time and mine listening to your denials. This organism is, in your own words”—he pointed to the folder—“‘the ideal weapon.’ We have it, and we intend to use it!”
“You are mad,” said Machdi. “Besides, why do you need this weapon if you are so ready?”
“The weapon will not be used against our enemy; it will be used against the United States.”
“The United States?” It was almost a scream. Machdi fell backward into his chair.
Kassim saw his opportunity. “Now listen, Dr. Machdi, and listen well. The fate of all of us—of the world—may depend on how well you listen—and hear. First, to use such a weapon against an obvious enemy would be disastrous. Retaliation from the enemy or from one of his allies could destroy us.”
“And the United States? They will just sit by when they find out? They have more nuclear weapons than we have bacteria. What you propose is suicide.”
The 11th Plague Page 2
