by Daniel Kalla
Moskor led her over to a row of microscopes on the table. “Gwen, you got to see this!”
Gwen leaned over the first microscope. She peered through the eyepieces and rolled a knob until the slide came into focus. The field lit up like a fluorescent green fireworks display. Between the luminescent areas were several dark cells. “African green monkey kidney cells?” Gwen asked without looking up.
“Yup.”
African green monkey kidney was one of the best culture mediums for growing viruses in the lab. She recognized the bright green as direct fluorescent antibody or DFA staining, which meant that fluorescent-labeled antibodies had latched on to virally infected cells and lit them up in radiant green.
She stood up from the microscope and pointed at the slide. “Influenza?”
Moskor nodded. “An overwhelming infection, as you can see. Now look at the next slide. Same DFA stain. Same source blood.”
Gwen moved down one microscope and looked into the eyepieces. The color was gone. Only the dark kidney cells floated in the field. She glanced up at Moskor. “What happened?”
“That blood came from the same monkey forty-eight hours later. Difference was he had been treated with our new drug,” he said with a hint of pride. “A36112.”
She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around Moskor again, catching him off guard. He stumbled back a step before regaining his balance. He laughed. “I’m not willing to take a hug even from a beautiful girl like you if it’s going to cost me a broken hip.”
Gwen released her grip. She gaped at him with a huge smile. “That’s amazing, Isaac! No trace of infection at forty-eight hours.”
“Not all of the subject cases turn out this well,” he said. “But this is fairly typical of what we’ve been seeing with A36112.”
“Do you know what this means, Isaac?”
“Yeah.” He shrugged. “It means we’ve got a decent treatment for the flu in lab monkeys.”
“C’mon, Isaac,” she pressed. “It means a lot more than that.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself, kid,” Moskor said. “I’m as excited as a boy who just got the complete set of Yankees’ ball cards, too. But I’ve learned better than to assume you can take this”—he pointed at the microscopes—“and replicate it in the real world.”
“There’s no reason to think you can’t,” Savard said.
“We’re only in phase one testing on humans,” Moskor pointed out.
“And?”
“So far the side effects have been mild, like with the monkeys. A bit of diarrhea. Not much else.”
Savard nodded. “See.”
“Gwen, even if everything goes off without a hitch,” Moskor sighed. “You know how it works. We’re minimum five years away from commercial production.”
“Unless you’re talking about compassionate release,” she said, referring to the Food and Drug Administration clause that allows drugs to be released before finishing clinical trials in cases where the prognosis is otherwise hopeless.
“Compassionate release for the flu?” Moskor’s face crumpled into a grimace. Then his eyes went wide with realization. He shook a finger at her. “You’ve come about that Gansu strain of influenza! That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
“It’s spreading, Isaac. London and Hong Kong.”
“And I’m genuinely sorry about that,” Moskor said. “But you’re not seriously thinking about treating real patients with A36112.”
“Why not?”
“Gwen, have you lost your mind?” he said. “This is a research lab drug. Nothing more as of yet.”
“Isaac, we don’t know of any currently available drugs to treat this infection.”
He shook his head so vehemently that strands of his white hair fluttered above his head. “No. No. No.”
Gwen put a hand on her hip. “Isaac, do you know what this Gansu strain is capable of? It’s an indiscriminate killer.”
Moskor sighed. “I don’t doubt it, but that doesn’t change anything.”
“Twenty-five percent of its victims die,” Gwen continued. “Most are under fifty. So far, sixty children in a remote area of China died in one month, Isaac. Imagine what will happen if it sweeps the States?” She paused. “And we would have no treatment to offer.”
“So you’re willing to throw some untested drug at everyone and just hope for the best?” Moskor glared at her. “What of the seventy-five percent people who recover without treatment?”
“What of them?”
“What if my drug kills some of them?” he demanded. Then he added in a hushed tone, “That would be a fine legacy for my life’s work.”
“You said yourself that the side effects were mild in phase one testing,” she countered.
“In a hundred healthy volunteers!” Moskor said. “We have no idea what it would do to thousands of already sick patients.”
Gwen reached up and rested a hand on one of Moskor’s thick, slumping shoulders. “Isaac, what if your drug saved thousands of lives instead? That would be a very fitting legacy for your life’s work.”
He shook his head, but with less vehemence. “It’s too early, Gwen.”
CHAPTER 18
PEACE ARCH U.S.-CANADA BORDER CROSSING, WHITE ROCK, CANADA
Twenty miles south of Vancouver, Canada, Glenda and Marvin Zindler sat in their pickup truck in one of the six lanes at the Peace Arch Border Crossing, waiting to cross into the States. The dark gray skies threatened to erupt in rain at any moment. Only a white sedan stood between them and the customs agent, but it had been idling at the booth for over ten minutes while the agent leaned through the open window and interrogated the car’s occupants.
“This would have been the fastest lane for sure!” Marvin growled, his round face flushing and his jowls shaking as he tapped the steering wheel like a bongo.
“What’s the hurry, Marv?” Glenda asked, recognizing the familiar signs of escalation in her husband. “Seattle is less than three hours south of here, and the wedding isn’t until tonight. We’ll cross the border when we cross.”
“That’s not the point, Glen!” Marvin snapped.
Glenda noticed that the agent rested a hand on his belt just behind his holstered gun. Though she had crossed this border often, it was the first time she realized that unlike their Canadian counterparts, American customs agents were armed.
The handsome young agent pulled back from the window. Not only was his blue uniform similar to a state trooper’s, but he swaggered like one too as he walked around to the trunk of the car. He tapped on the back window and flagged the occupants inside.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Marvin huffed. “We’ll be here forever!”
Riveted by the minidrama unfolding in front of her, Glenda ignored her husband’s impatience as she watched the doors of the sedan open and a young couple step out.
“Figures!” Marvin heaved a sigh. “Look what we have here. A couple of them.”
“Them, who?”
“A-rabs. Now we’re going to have a search. Why they let those people come over here in the first place, I will never—”
“Give it a rest, Marv,” Glenda said distractedly as she studied the young couple. They both wore jeans and light jackets. The young man was of average build. He stood stiffly immobile by the trunk, and he only removed his sunglasses when the customs agent tapped by the side of his own eyes and pointed at him.
In contrast to her husband—at least Glenda presumed the couple was married—the woman kept in constant motion, looking like someone desperate for a bathroom. Short and squat with a thick shock of curly black hair, she glanced around constantly. The one time her eyes met Glenda’s, she dropped her gaze straight to the ground.
“Look, Marv, the poor dear is nervous as a virgin on her wedding night,” Glenda said and she reached over and tapped her husband on his fidgeting hand.
“Probably has good reason to be,” he grunted. “Bet they have forged papers. Or maybe they’re carrying a bomb.”
The customs agent slammed the trunk shut. He signaled something to them with his index finger, and the young couple climbed back into their car. “He’s letting them go through after all that?” Marvin said as if it were a personal insult.
But after passing the booth, the white car immediately turned off to its right. Glenda watched as the car circled back and passed them heading in the opposite direction toward Canada. “They’re turning them back,” Marvin said. “Good.”
“Racist.” Glenda shook her head at her husband. “Well, I feel sorry for them. That poor girl is going to be beside herself next time she tries to cross the border.”
POLICE HEADQUARTERS, CAIRO, EGYPT
Sergeant Achmed Eleish sat at his desk, hidden in a cloud of cigarette smoke, reading the incomplete dossier. Its content was so bland that it could have documented the military career of any undistinguished officer. But from what Eleish knew of Major Abdul Sabri, his career had been anything but undistinguished.
When his informer, Bishr Gamal, had whispered Sabri’s name from a phone booth in downtown Cairo, Eleish felt a chill. Gamal had refused to expand much on the revelation, demanding more money and a more secure line of communication. However, he had told Eleish that Sabri had been frequenting the Al-Futuh Mosque and seen often in the company of Hazzir Al Kabaal.
What was a secular army officer with a reputation for ruthlessly crushing Islamic radicalism doing at an Islamic mosque? Eleish wondered. He reached for the file again, hoping to glean a clue.
Even for an Egyptian Army Special Forces officer, Sabri’s file had been censored beyond usual. There were months, even years, missing. And the mentioned postings told very little of his activities. Some of the content was outright contradictory. In Alexandria in the early nineties, it said he had been assigned to port security, which did not fit at all with his Special Forces branch of the army. And after the Luxor massacre of 1997 (where sixty-eight Western tourists were gunned down by Muslim extremists), Sabri had been allegedly entrusted with assuring “tourism safety” for the pyramids of Giza. Eleish couldn’t picture Sabri standing outside the Great Sphinx shepherding tourists around like a traffic cop. He could only infer that Sabri played a role in the largely successful hunt to track down and kill the masterminds behind the massacre.
The last entry was the oddest part of the file. Dated six months earlier, a single line stated that Sabri had voluntarily resigned his commission. Eleish did the calculation in his head. It meant that Sabri had resigned after twenty-three years of service, two years shy of the highest level of military pension that all officers sought. It made no sense.
Eleish’s stomach rumbled. Thankful that Ramadan had ended, he reached into the desk drawer and pulled out his lunch at 10:40 in the morning. Samira had made him a pita bread sandwich stuffed with the cold lamb kebabs from last night’s dinner. His favorite. Devouring the sandwich, he mulled the facts over in his mind trying to come up with a logical link between a publishing magnate, a Special Forces soldier, and a mosque known as a hotbed for Islamic extremism.
A raspy voice interrupted his thoughts. “Sergeant, I have something for you to see.”
Eleish looked up from his lunch to see Constable Qasim Ramsi standing in front of his desk. Short and sweaty with beady eyes and an oily smile, the junior detective looked perpetually guilty, which coincidentally he was. Eleish knew Ramsi to be a corrupt officer who spent much of his time extorting money from the dealers, pickpockets, pimps, and prostitutes of Cairo.
“I’m busy, Constable,” Eleish said, searching his desk for a napkin to wipe the pita sauce off his hands and face.
“You will want to see these,” Ramsi said, and Eleish knew immediately that he wouldn’t.
Ramsi pulled out the manila envelope from under his arm. He reached two stubby fingers inside and withdrew a series of black-and-white blowups. He dropped the first one on Eleish’s desk.
Eleish finally located the lunch bag under the chair. Inside, he found the napkin his wife always thoughtfully packed for him. Only after his hands were clean did he reach for the photo. It was a snapshot of a murder victim lying on the street in his underwear. His head and face were covered in so much blood that his features were unrecognizable. Huge bruises mottled the upper chest and legs.
“Congratulations, Qasim, you have a murder victim,” Eleish said. “It will be even more impressive if you find the murderer.”
Ramsi smiled wider. “Not just any victim, Sergeant.” He tossed another enlarged photograph onto Eleish’s desk. It fluttered in the air, flipping upside down.
Annoyed, Eleish reached down and flipped it over.
It was a close-up of the victim’s face after some of the blood had been wiped away. The victim’s eyes were swollen shut. His lower lip was filleted down the middle. The nose deviated to the right. An open red sore replaced most of his right cheek. And his right ear was missing. In spite of the mutilation, Eleish recognized Bishr Gamal’s face.
“Looks like you’ll be needing a new informer,” Ramsi grunted.
Eleish suppressed the surge of anger. He stared at the photo for a few moments, composing himself. “Where?”
“In an alley not far from Khan al-Khalili,” Ramsi said.
“How did he die?”
Ramsi put a meaty finger on the picture. “Badly.”
“This is not an autopsy report,” Eleish said through gritted teeth. “Was he shot, knifed, or just beaten to death?”
“Beaten.”
“Who?”
“Did you notice the missing ear?” Ramsi asked, patronizingly.
The gesture was the signature of one of Cairo’s most notorious gangs, the Muhannad Al Din. Their name meant “sword of the faith,” but Eleish had yet to meet a spiritual member of the gang. They were lowlife who trafficked in people, drugs, and firearms. They traded with anyone willing to pay, from Islamic extremists to European drug smugglers. And the price for double-crossing them always involved the loss of an ear before death.
“They didn’t kill him quickly, though,” Ramsi said. “Some of his bruises had ripened. And see the sore on his cheek. His face was burned with something.”
“Tortured?” Eleish said.
Ramsi nodded.
“Why would the Muhannad Al Din torture Bishr?”
“A thousand reasons.” Ramsi shrugged. “He was a street rat, Sergeant. Either he stole from them. Or short-changed a prostitute.” He snickered. “Or maybe he snitched on them to you, and they wanted to find out what he told you.”
Eleish took a slow breath, suppressing the urge to punch his slimy colleague. He swallowed his rage and spoke in an even tone. “Look, Ramsi, I knew Gamal. It will be easier for me. Why don’t I take care of this?”
Ramsi shrugged. He dropped the rest of the photos on Eleish’s desk. “It’s all yours, Sergeant. He was going to the very bottom of my pile, anyway.”
After Ramsi left, Eleish sat at his desk and stared at the photos of Gamal’s disfigured face. Ramsi was right. Cairo was a violent city. There were a thousand reasons why the Muhannad Al Din might have killed Gamal. Still, Eleish sensed that his murder had something to do with his presence at the Al-Futuh Mosque. The realization stirred the pangs of guilt. It also tangibly reinforced the risks of tracking Hazzir Kabaal.
Eleish moved the black-and-whites out of the way and reached for Abdul Sabri’s file. He flipped open the cover, on which there was a half-page black-and-white photo of Sabri. His delicate features stared tranquilly back at the camera.
“You work for Kabaal now, don’t you, Major?” Eleish asked the picture softly under his breath and then reached for another cigarette.
CHAPTER 19
SHERATON LONDON SUITES, LONDON, ENGLAND
After finishing at the Royal Free Hospital and then visiting the headquarters of the London Health Commission, Haldane did not get his first glimpse of his hotel room until after 1:00 A.M. The message light was b
linking on his phone, but he opted instead to check his e-mail. Propped on a pillow against the bed’s headboard, he rested the notebook computer on his lap and flipped it open. After linking to the hotel’s wireless network, he downloaded his e-mails. Several of the 224 messages were marked “urgent,” but when Noah noticed his wife’s name among the list of senders he went straight for her message. Sent almost twenty-four hours earlier, she had left the subject field blank. He read:Noah,
I can’t imagine a more cowardly way to do this, but I didn’t know how else to reach you before you came home. And I don’t think I can look you in the eye and say what I need to say.
Noah, I never thought I could love anyone else the way I have loved you, but I can’t deny any longer to you or to myself how deeply I have fallen for Julie. Gay? Straight? Bisexual? I don’t know, “selfish” might be the only term that applies.
You’ve always been loving and decent to me. Even in those dark months when you withdrew from the world, I felt your pain. I know you never set out to hurt me. And it wasn’t an excuse for what I did. There is no excuse.
Noah, you are a good person ... maybe a great person ... I am not. Still, I have tried to do the right thing. I wanted to turn my back on this consuming passion. Or is it addiction? God help me, I still do! But in the end, I can’t.
Love? Lust? Infatuation? I don’t know. I’ve lost my perspective. But whatever it is, I can’t help how strongly I feel it.
I know so much more than my feelings are at stake. Chloe and you ... But right now, I need time and I need space. Noah, I hope you will be willing to give me both though I deserve neither.
Anna.
