Pandemic

by Daniel Kalla

  “Yes, Mrs. Mathews.” He nodded. “We saw people who had hovered on the brink of death and then rebounded. They were fine by the time we talked to them.”

  She reached out and grabbed his arm. “And children?”

  “Yes, children too. Most of the children in China survived the virus.”

  She squeezed his arm and her lips formed a tentative smile. “But Alyssa has been so sick ...”

  “But she has hung on for four days.”

  Mathews shrugged helplessly and shook her head. “So?”

  “Four days was the magic number in China,” Haldane explained. “All the patients who survived for more than four days went on to recover fully.”

  Mathews’s fingers dug into Haldane’s arm. Her eyes went wide. “Alyssa will recover?” she demanded frantically.

  Haldane donned a reassuring smile. “I expect so, Mrs. Mathews.”

  She loosened the grip on his arm. Tears began to pour from her eyes. “Thank you, Dr. Haldane. Thank you so much ...”

  “Not me,” Haldane said. “The staff here at the hospital.”

  “Of course,” she sniffled, but still clung to his arm.

  Haldane allowed her a moment, and then asked, “Mrs. Mathews, do you have any idea where Alyssa picked up this virus?”

  The sleeplessness caught up to her again. Her eyes glazed over. She waved a hand carelessly around the empty waiting room. “There are bugs everywhere. People sneezing and coughing, it’s an insane time to travel—”

  “Veronica,” Haldane cut her off. “We’re confident that Alyssa picked it up at the hotel. Probably five to seven days ago give or take. Do you remember seeing anyone who looked particularly sick at that time?”

  She shook her head wearily. “I’ve seen so many red and runny noses ...”

  “Think, Veronica, please. It’s very important.”

  Haldane’s request didn’t appear to register on her blank face. “I tried to keep the girls away, but they’re everywhere. In the lobby, at the restaurants, by the pool. Some places you can shield them a little, but what can you do when you’re stuck on an elevator with someone who—” She stopped in midsentence. Her eyes narrowed. She began to nod.

  Haldane leaned closer to her. “What is it, Veronica?”

  “About a week ago, we were riding the elevator just before supper. We had just been at the swimming pool, the girls and I. They loved that pool ...” She smiled her first openmouthed smile in their presence, exposing perfect white teeth. “A woman was on the elevator. Standing by the buttons. She was coughing.”

  Levine cut in. “What did she look like, Mrs. Mathews?”

  “Not well.” Veronica shook her head. “She looked as if she needed the elevator wall just to keep her upright. When the girls headed for the buttons—they love to press the buttons—she backed away from them, as if scared.”

  “Can you be any more specific in your description?” Levine asked, her tone slightly critical.

  “She was younger than me. I’d say, early to mid-twenties, at the most. Her thick sandy brown hair was a mess, but she was pretty. Big eyes. She looked pale, but I think that was because of her illness. To me, she looked Mediterranean. Italian? Spanish? Maybe even Greek, but I don’t think so ... Spanish would be my bet.”

  “Anything else?”

  Veronica thought. “She was dressed a little”—she searched for the word—“seductively, considering.”

  “Considering what?” Haldane asked.

  “That she obviously wasn’t well.” Veronica said. “She wore a tight blouse and jeans, along with a fair bit of makeup. It struck me as out of place for someone fighting a rotten cold. Especially in November.”

  “Did she speak to you at all?”

  “No,” Veronica said. “When I apologized for the girls crowding her at the control panel, she smiled nervously and stumbled back away from the girls.” Veronica’s eyelids drooped again from fatigue. She looked at Haldane, sadly. “The poor woman just sort of wilted in front of my eyes.”

  “That was the only time you saw her?” Haldane asked.

  Before Veronica could answer, a man emerged from the CT scanning room, wearing the gown, mask, and gloves. Once outside, he pulled off his mask and walked over toward the bank of chairs.

  As soon as Veronica saw him, she leaped to her feet and ran over to him. “What did it show, Dr. Mayer? How is my baby?” She reached out to touch him.

  CHAPTER 17

  DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY, NEBRASKA AVENUE CENTER, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  Hobbling into the conference room, Gwen Savard couldn’t conceal her gimpy ankle from Alex Clayton, the CIA Deputy Director of Operations, or any of the other members of the Bioterrorism Preparedness Council. Gwen had no one to blame but herself. She had continued to run on the treadmill at the gym for days after her injury, and now she paid the price. Maybe Peter had been right when he’d once jokingly described her as a dog with a bone and a bad case of lockjaw.

  All fifteen members of the council were already around the oval table when Savard took her seat at its head. After she made a few brief remarks, the meeting unfolded predictably. They discussed the old standards of bioterrorism—smallpox, anthrax, the plague, and so on—recycling data they had seen before without shedding new light. They reviewed the sixth draft of the generic urban centers’ Emergency Response Plan to Biological Attack, known by most of them as ERPBA, without reaching consensus.

  Savard had difficulty concentrating on the debate. After her conversation earlier in the week with Haldane, she had filed the Gansu Flu into the recesses of her mind; worthy of no more than a mental footnote. Now with its sudden reemergence, she could focus on little else.

  After the committee covered the agenda items, Gwen said, “No doubt, everyone here has heard that the Gansu strain of influenza has shown up in London. At last report there are at least fourteen cases and three deaths. And in Hong Kong, there are now five confirmed infections and several more suspect cases.”

  Halfway down the table Moira Roberts, the Deputy Directory of the FBI, leaned forward and squinted at Gwen. “And this has to do with bioterrorism how?”

  In a plain black suit and gray blouse, which matched her prematurely gray hair worn in an outdated bob, Roberts struck Gwen as the epitome of frumpy. “No one seems to know how the virus got to England or Hong Kong,” Savard said.

  “Have you considered travelers from China?” Roberts asked in a tone that made it unclear whether or not she meant to be facetious.

  “It did occur to me.” Savard matched Roberts’s tone. “But unlike SARS where the index cases were easily traceable, they have found no link in London or Hong Kong to the Gansu outbreak.”

  “Which means it must be bioterrorism, right?” Roberts said, no longer bothering to mask her sarcasm.

  “Which means,” Gwen said slowly, suppressing her mounting irritation, “we cannot discount the possibility of terrorism.”

  “It might be a while before you can discount any possible explanation for the outbreaks,” Roberts pointed out.

  Gwen didn’t doubt Roberts’s intelligence, but her agitative personality made it impossible to warm to the woman. “So in the meantime we just ignore it?” Savard said.

  Roberts folded her arms and sighed. “That’s not what I’m trying to say.”

  Annoyed, Clayton cut in. “What are you trying to say, Moira?”

  “I remember we had similar discussions around SARS,” Roberts replied, talking to the table instead of Clayton. “Some people were convinced it was a biological weapon dreamed up by Al Qaeda. That didn’t exactly pan out, did it?” She sighed. “No doubt this new virus poses a potential major public health risk to the United States. I don’t discount that for a minute. What I suggest is that we wait to learn more before we overreact and waste precious resources chasing phantom terrorists when other departments, like Health and Human Services, will have more pressing priorities to address.”

  A few of the members around the table n
odded, but none spoke up, appearing content to sit on the sidelines.

  Ignoring Roberts, Clayton turned to Savard. “Gwen, how do we find out where this virus came from?”

  “Finding the index case or cases is the key,” she said.

  “And if we don’t?” Clayton asked.

  “That would concern me,” Gwen said gravely. “With almost every epidemic of this magnitude, the index case is readily identifiable. The person usually seeks medical attention just like any other victim. And if they don’t then you have to wonder if he or she is deliberately avoiding detection.”

  “But, Dr. Savard,” Roberts said, “I understand from the newspaper that this bug is only twenty-five percent lethal.”

  “Only!” Gwen said. “That’s a devastating mortality rate. Most flus run at a mortality rate of far less than one percent. And those influenza strains kill only people at the extremes of age. This bug is killing otherwise healthy children and adults at a rate of twenty-five percent. That is up there with smallpox and flesh-eating disease!”

  “And people recover quickly from it,” Roberts continued as if Gwen hadn’t spoken. “So the index case might have already recovered without thinking he ever had anything more than a bad flu. Or conversely, he might have died somewhere and no one has connected his death to the outbreak.”

  “So two people carry the virus over from China to London and Hong Kong, simultaneously, and then both die in obscurity? What are the chances?” Savard held out her hands, palms up.

  “I’m simply suggesting that there are several reasons aside from terrorism for the index cases not to have materialized.” Roberts nodded to Gwen, as if mollifying an irrational child.

  “Moira, Moira, Moira,” Clayton said with an exaggerated sigh. “I’ve heard the Tony Robbins tapes too, but wishful thinking isn’t going to make everything okay this time.”

  Several people laughed. Even Savard had to bite her lip. Roberts glared at Clayton with undisguised contempt.

  “Correct me, if I’m wrong,” interjected Jack Elinda, a weedy balding man from the Department of the Environment. “But this is a form of influenza, true?” He cocked his finger and thumb into an imaginary gun at Gwen, which he had a tendency to do whenever he was trying to make a point.

  “A mutated form,” Savard said. “One that has undergone massive reassortment of its genetic code. Effectively, it’s a virus that man has never seen before.”

  “Still, if it’s an influenza virus we should be able to use a vaccine, true?” Elinda pressed.

  “The current flu vaccine would be useless,” Savard said.

  “But we could manufacture a new vaccine for this particular strain, true?” Elinda cocked his finger at Gwen again.

  “Theoretically.” Savard nodded. She turned to the Assistant Secretary of the Department of Health and Human Services. “Any thoughts, Dr. Menck?”

  Dr. Harold Menck was an epidemiologist in his early sixties. Of medium build with a slight paunch and a tight crew cut, he always wore the same blue suit and white shirt with a rotation of bland ties. He rarely spoke at the Bioterrorism Preparedness Council meetings. Gwen had the suspicion that in spite of his high-profile appointment Menck was biding time while awaiting the golden parachute of retirement.

  Leaning back in his chair with his hands folded on top of his head, Menck said, “I tend to agree with Ms. Roberts.”

  “That wasn’t the question,” Savard said.

  “I know.” Menck shrugged. “But I have no idea how long it will take to create a vaccine. I hear scientists have started to look into it, but remember they are still nowhere near a SARS vaccine.”

  “This is influenza, though,” Savard said.

  “That should make it easier,” Menck said with as much interest as if they were talking about genetically altered peaches. “But even if they had already developed the vaccine, it would take several months to produce enough of it to immunize the country. And I think we should be careful not to overreact. Young lady, you probably don’t remember the Swine Flu fiasco, but I lived through it.”

  “I remember, Dr. Menck,” Savard said coolly.

  “Well I don’t.” Clayton shot her a playful smile. “Then again I’m way younger than Dr. Savard.”

  Gwen rolled her eyes, but chuckled in spite of herself.

  “In 1975, a nineteen-year-old recruit died on a Louisiana army base after developing flulike symptoms,” Menck said. “Tests confirmed he had acquired a strain of Swine Flu, thought to be closely related to the original Spanish Flu. Everyone panicked. The then president, Gerald Ford, authorized production of 150 million doses of vaccine against Swine Flu. Six months later no one else had died of the virus. They even began to wonder if that first soldier had died of heatstroke. But by then, Ford was into an election year and he didn’t want to admit a costly mistake. So he listened to the CDC advisors and let them proceed with a mass-scale immunization. Problem was the vaccine started to kill people. A couple hundred people died of vaccine complications before they stopped. It turned into the most costly class-action lawsuit in medico-legal history. And for what?”

  “No offence, Dr. Menck.” Savard shook her head. “Three hundred people in China did not die of heatstroke in November.”

  “I understand,” Menck said, resuming his disinterested pose with hands on top of his head. “I am merely suggesting we should consider all options, but balance our response. No point in people throwing on gas masks and climbing into backyard bunkers, like we did in the fifties every time the Soviets got out of sorts.”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Menck,” Savard said evenly. “A man-made pandemic is the one occurrence that could make a nuclear event look tame by comparison.”

  After the meeting broke up, Clayton lagged behind with Savard. Standing at the doorway, he asked, “What happened to your foot?”

  Gwen shrugged. “Just a little sprain.”

  Clayton flashed his openmouthed GO smile. “I was kind of hoping you had broken it on the ass of a certain unnamed deputy director of the FBI.”

  She laughed. “Who knows? Maybe, she’s right,” Gwen said, taking the weight off her foot by leaning against a chair. “Maybe I am overreacting.”

  Clayton shook his head. “You’re doing your job, Gwen.”

  She nodded. “Something very strange is going on with this bug, Alex. I know it. I wish I were closer to the action.”

  He laughed. “Hey, that’s my line! You sound like a washed-up ex-field operative.”

  “I just wish I had more to go on.” She frowned. “Speaking of which, anything new on that missing lab equipment in Africa?”

  “Our people are still looking into it, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.” He snapped his fingers. “I think it’s gone.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” she said. “Any more cell chatter?”

  “Just the usual.” Clayton reached forward and brushed his hand against her wrist. In spite of the light contact, Gwen sensed his strength and confidence. She couldn’t deny the sexiness of the gesture. It had been too long since she experienced anything akin to physical warmth.

  “We still on for tonight?” he asked.

  “Alex, I would love to—”

  “Oh, no! You’re canceling, aren’t you?” Clayton covered his face in mock mortification. “It’s prom night all over again. I’m going to wind up taking my mom out for sushi, aren’t I?”

  “Alex, I want to,” she said. “But I’m not going to be in town tonight.”

  “I should have guessed.” He shook his head and laughed. “You’re flying to London, aren’t you?”

  YALE UNIVERSITY, NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT

  Clayton had it almost right. Gwen was going to London but not until the next morning. In the meantime, she had one interstate trip to make before heading overseas. The Lear jet flew her from Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport to Tweed-New Haven Airport in less than thirty minutes. The waiting car drove her directly to the Yale campus.

  It was
after six o’clock when the car pulled up in front of the pharmacy research laboratory, but even in the dark the sight conjured up a wave of memories. Gwen hadn’t been back to the lab in more than fifteen years, but like everything else she had seen of Dr. Isaac Moskor’s life the building hadn’t changed in the interim.

  Most of the building was dark, but behind the top row of translucent windows, the lights of Moskor’s lab burned brightly. After clearing security at the front door, Gwen headed up the stairs to the fifth-floor lab. She rang the doorbell. The metal door opened, and on the other side stood her mentor, looming larger than life. His white hair was tousled, and his thick-framed glasses askew. His lab coat had black streaks and patches on it. He looked as if he had just slid out from underneath a car whose transmission he had been adjusting. Gwen recognized the disheveled appearance and the burning determination in his eyes. It meant Moskor had been wrapped up in an experiment of one kind or another. It meant he was happy.

  “I get to see you twice in a month?” he grunted in his low-pitched Jersey accent. He shot her a crooked grin. “You get yourself fired or something?”

  She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around the bear of a man. “Isaac, it’s always a pleasure to see you.”

  “You too, kid,” he said, breaking off the embrace. “Come see the old lab.”

  She followed him down a corridor into the main room of the laboratory. Along the back wall a row of cages rattled when she stepped into the room. Gwen remembered how the male rhesus monkeys always used to hoot and shake the cages when strangers, especially females, entered the room.

  She might as well have stepped back into her postgraduate days of the late eighties. Most of the equipment was the same—lab tables, fridges, animal cages, and incubators—but there were new computers and other high-tech pieces of equipment scattered through Moskor’s large lab. The sights, sounds, and smell of the place made Gwen realize how much she missed the milieu. The rewards of being a top-level government scientific administrator suddenly paled in the presence of the indescribable rush that came with the search for scientific truth, or even just the possibility of it, palpable in the air of her old research lab.