Pandemic

by Daniel Kalla

Still appearing stunned, he shrugged. “It’s a simple organic compound. Easy to make a couple hundred pills. But what you’re talking about?” He held his palms up.

  “What I’m talking about is millions of doses,” she said, already planning the logistics in her mind. “Isaac, have you got an intravenous preparation for this?”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “We’ve had to use it on the sickest monkeys who aren’t able to swallow tablets.”

  “Perfect,” Gwen said. “We’ll need to produce both.”

  Moskor cast his eyes down. “I knew this was a possibility when you sent me to Atlanta. And, kid, I know you are doing what you think you have to do,” he said softly. “But to me this is still bad medicine. You don’t jump from half-baked, half-finished studies to treating live sick people, no matter how tempting the results may seem. It’s been done before.” He paused. “And the literature is littered with stories of enough premature corpses to tell me that it’s a very bad idea.”

  Gwen wished she could reach out and touch her troubled friend. Instead she just nodded. “Isaac, you have no idea how many premature corpses might be littered if we don’t do anything. Of course, people might die. Even directly as a result of being treated with A36112,” she acknowledged. “But what you’ve given me—what you’ve given the world—is more hope than we had yesterday. I know it’s too early to know for sure, but you might have found a cure for the Killer Flu. And we don’t have time to confirm that in a lab.”

  He leaned back in his seat, his expression somewhere between satisfaction and skepticism. “So the real world is going to be our lab, huh?”

  “There is no other way,” Gwen said.

  CHAPTER 30

  HARBOURVIEW HOTEL, VANCOUVER, CANADA

  Free of quarantine, Noah Haldane stepped out of the elevator into the lobby for the first time in five days. He wanted to drop his suitcase and run out into the December sunshine that streamed in through the hotel’s huge windows, but Duncan McLeod, bearing a tray holding three coffees, beckoned him from the other side of the lobby.

  “Christ!” McLeod bellowed when Noah had made it halfway across the floor. “Now that it’s safe to hug you, I got no interest. Funny that.”

  “I’ve overcome bigger disappointments,” Haldane said with a slight smile as he eased a cup out of the tray. “Thanks. Any sign of Gwen?”

  “Not yet,” McLeod said. “She’s probably getting herself all gussied up for me.”

  Haldane chuckled as he inhaled the sweet aroma of the coffee. Since childhood he had always preferred the smell to the actual taste, but after an anticipatory night of restless sleep, he needed every drop of the cup in his hand to keep him going.

  “You laugh, Haldane, but the McLeod charm is a mysterious and powerful force.” He fluttered his eyelids, making his lazy eye even more noticeable. “That my heart has already been claimed only drives the ladies that much madder.”

  “One can only imagine,” Haldane said.

  McLeod gestured at Haldane with his chin. “I thought I sensed a little something between the likes of you two up in your room. No?” He raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t succumb to a mutual case of quarantine fever, did you?”

  Haldane shook his head. As he was about to advise McLeod to let it go, he glimpsed Gwen emerging from an elevator. Rolling her suitcase behind her, she half jogged toward them. And Noah noticed that she still had a slight limp in her step as she approached.

  She wore a knee length green suit, which showed off her lithe calves. Her tawny blond hair was clipped back behind her ears. As she neared, Noah saw that her face was flushed and her eyes wide with excitement.

  Catching Noah off guard, Gwen threw her arms around him, almost spilling his coffee. The pressure of her firm body against his stirred something inside, but realizing the hug had lasted a moment too long, he let go at the same moment she did. The embrace might have been innocent enough—nothing more than any two friends might share—but it was their first physical contact beyond a handshake, and it left him even more confused.

  “You missed a spot,” McLeod said to Gwen and pointed to himself with a thumb.

  With a laugh, Gwen leaned forward and, avoiding the coffee tray in his hand, pecked McLeod on the cheek. McLeod reached down, pulled a coffee from his tray, and handed it to her.

  She smiled her thanks.

  “You seem awfully happy to be free of quarantine,” Haldane said to her.

  “It’s not just that” She shook her head enthusiastically. “I’ve got news.” She flashed an openmouthed smile, and Noah noticed how perfect her teeth were. “And for a change it’s good news.”

  “What is it?” Haldane asked.

  She raised her coffee cup, as if offering a toast. “My mentor, Dr. Isaac Moskor, had a huge breakthrough with an experimental antiviral he’s developed.”

  “With the Gansu strain?” Haldane said, suddenly swept up in her excitement.

  Savard nodded and told them about Moskor’s early results with the experiments on the African green monkeys.

  When she described the scientist’s reticence in proceeding to production of the drug, McLeod nodded in full agreement “He’s got a point. Those are some bloody shaky grounds for exposing millions of people to a completely untested drug.”

  “Under normal circumstances, no question,” Haldane said. “But with what we’re potentially facing?” He crumpled the empty cup in his hand. “We’re grabbing at straws here, and this one is as good as or better than any we’ve seen so far.”

  UNITED FLIGHT 3614

  The three doctors spent most of the flight back to Dulles Airport lost in their own work. Savard had her laptop computer propped open on the tray in front of her, but she only seemed to hang up the air phone long enough to place another call. McLeod sat across the aisle from the other two, reading glasses on as he scanned through reams of journal articles. Though he went to great pains to imply otherwise, McLeod was among the brightest and most knowledgeable virologists Haldane had ever met. Aside from the levity he provided, McLeod was the stabilizing force on the WHO’s emerging pathogens team.

  Haldane focused his attention on Somalia, one of the few African countries where his WHO job had never taken him. Using his laptop’s electronic encyclopedia, he scanned the sordid history of the former British and Italian colony while acquiring a rudimentary understanding of its arid climate, plainslike geography, and strife-ridden politics. He studied a detailed map. In a nation ruled by anarchy, it seemed to Noah that there was a vast amount of territory within which to hide a small terrorist base. Pin-pointing their lab might prove a daunting task even for the most powerful military and intelligence force on the planet.

  While he worked, Haldane couldn’t help overhearing snippets of Gwen’s conversations from the seat beside. In the course of the flight, it sounded as if she had made strides in securing a pharmaceutical plant to mass-produce Moskor’s new antiviral drug. Though he could only hear one side of the conversation, Haldane was impressed by her powers of persuasion, employing equal parts charm and intimidation to achieve her goal.

  Catching her between phone calls, Haldane reached over and touched her on the sleeve of her jacket. “Gwen, if everything goes without a hitch, when is the soonest this drug would be ready?”

  She shrugged. “They tell me three to four weeks.”

  “Hmmm,” Haldane murmured.

  “That’s what they tell me,” she said with a slight smile. ”I’ve told them it has to be ready in one. Maximum.”

  Haldane nodded and pulled his hand from her arm.

  She kept her eyes fixed on him. “You must be happy to be going home to her.” Haldane didn’t know whether Gwen meant his daughter or his wife, until she added, “You can finally celebrate her birthday in person.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I’m pretty excited.”

  She cleared her throat and looked down at her notebook computer. “How will the rest of the reunion go?”

  Haldane shrugged. “No idea,” he sa
id honestly. He had shared little with Gwen about his marital discord; and he never mentioned Anna’s confused sexuality or infidelity. Gwen had inferred most of what she knew from how infrequently he spoke of his wife.

  Gwen uttered a nervous laugh. “My situation is a bit more straightforward. I only have to settle up with my cat.”

  “And the media,” Noah reminded her.

  She closed the case on her laptop computer. “Yeah, them, too. I get the feeling I’m going to be on everyone’s dance card once we get to D.C.”

  “Nervous?” he asked.

  “A bit,” she said. “It’s only fair though. After all, I was supposed to protect the country from this kind of thing.”

  He shook his head in disbelief. “You don’t blame yourself for what’s happening?”

  Gwen shrugged. When she met his stare, he recognized for the first time vulnerability in her green eyes. He wanted to stroke her cheek and hold her in his arms, but instead he said, “You were one of the few who predicted this scenario. What could you have possibly done differently?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “All I do know is that I’m the Director of Counter-Bioterrorism and the country is under virtual siege by bioterrorists. In my eyes that doesn’t add up to good job performance.”

  Haldane chuckled sympathetically. “My job involves dealing with emerging pathogens, but I don’t beat myself up every time some new virus or parasite pops up.”

  She smiled warmly, which wiped the fragility from her face but left the melancholy in her eyes. “You’re sweet, Noah, but it’s not a fair comparison.” She touched his hand. “Anyway, don’t worry about me. My capacity for self-recrimination is very limited. And I can handle the press ... I think.”

  He grabbed her hand and squeezed it in his. She held on to his hand for a few moments, before giving it one long squeeze and then releasing her grip.

  WASHINGTON, D.C.

  It was late afternoon by the time they touched down at Dulles International Airport. An entourage from the Department of Homeland Security’s staff met them at the gates and led them out to waiting limos. Outside, in the brisk Washington afternoon, the light was waning in the gray sky. A wind blew occasional flakes of wet snow into their faces.

  Treading carefully, McLeod avoided the slushy snow on the sidewalk. “Christ, Haldane! And I thought Glasgow was dreary in the wintertime,” he said.

  As they loaded into the waiting limo, one of the DHS staffers said almost apologetically, “Secretary Hart left strict instructions to take you straight to his office for a debriefing.”

  Gwen shook her head. “We need to make a stop, first.”

  “Where, ma’am?” the young aide asked.

  “Langley,” she said.

  Haldane vacillated as to whether to join the others at the CIA headquarters or race straight home. In the end, he decided that business matters had to take precedence, but as the cars pulled up in front of the steel and glass buildings on the west side of the sprawling CIA complex he felt anguished knowing that he was less than three miles from Chloe on the other side of the Potomac.

  After clearing security, which included metal detectors and a manual pat-down, they were ushered into a wide-open hallway with marble walls and pillars. A man dressed in an expensive-looking navy suit and pale blue shirt, but no tie, strode purposefully toward them. Haldane estimated that the man with the gelled black hair and Mediterranean good looks was, like him, straddling forty.

  The man walked straight up to Gwen and gathered her in a tight hug, causing Noah an unexpected pang of jealousy. After he released her, Gwen pointed to her two companions. “Alex, these are my colleagues Noah Haldane and Duncan McLeod.”

  “It’s a pleasure, Doctors. Alex Clayton.” He shook their hands and flashed his best Pierce-Brosnan-playing-007 smile.

  In spite of Clayton’s affability, Haldane resolved not to like the CIA man.

  Clayton led them through a maze of corridors and up two separate elevators, before they reached his spacious office with the gold nameplate that read: “A Clayton, Deputy Director of Operations.” In front of his mahogany desk, a circular meeting table stood with six chairs around it. Lost in conversation with Gwen, Clayton nodded at the table, indicating to Haldane and McLeod to take a seat

  “Shite, Haldane, my whole department could be run out of this office,” McLeod grumbled as he joined Haldane in a seat beside him.

  Eventually, Gwen sat down beside Haldane, and Clayton beside her. Once seated, she continued to update Clayton on the developments in Moskor’s laboratory. He nodded several times and once even whistled appreciatively. When she finished, he beamed. “Gwen, this could be the break we needed.”

  “Or it could be absolutely nothing,” McLeod grunted with his arms folded on the table and his head perched on them.

  Clayton turned from Gwen and appraised McLeod with an amused smile. “You’re not exactly ‘the glass is half full’ kind of a guy are you, Dr. McLeod?”

  “Depends what’s in the glass,” McLeod said without lifting his head. “If it’s just a bunch of monkey piss, I don’t get too excited even if the glass is flowing over the top.”

  “Touché.” Clayton laughed.

  “Alex, I think I’ve shared all our developments with you,” Savard said. “Your turn.”

  “Fair enough.” Clayton nodded. He pointed at a white screen on the far wall as he opened his laptop computer. “I’ll need visuals for this.”

  “Let’s begin with the intercepted e-mail from the Cairo police detective, Achmed Eleish.” Clayton tapped a few keystrokes and the picture of the murdered Vancouver terrorist popped up on the screen. “The Egyptian government has corroborated most of Eleish’s story. This woman is exactly who he said she was, Sharifa Sha’rawi. She used to be a regular at the Al-Futuh Mosque, home to many of Cairo’s extremists. So far the Egyptians and our people have got nothing out of the mosque’s Sheikh and his followers, but it’s still a work in progress.”

  He tapped away at his keyboard before Hazzir Kabaal’s groomed image filled the screen. “Okay, Hazzir Kabaal. Up to now only a financer of terrorism, but when the Egyptians raided his home and office they found all kinds of material—from Islamist literature to books on microbiology and viruses—that fit the bill.”

  Clayton hit two more keys. Abdul Sabri’s photo from his military record popped up on the screen. “Now, this guy is by far the most interesting character of the motley crew. The Egyptians have given us his file, and it’s a doozy. As a major with their Special Forces, Sabri developed a talent and appetite for brutal operations. Massacres might be a better word. Some of the stuff he carried out ...” Clayton shook his head.

  “Don’t be too jealous,” McLeod said. “Your agency carries out more than its share of global atrocities.”

  Clayton shot him an annoyed glance, which lacked any sign of his earlier amusement “Even the Egyptian Special Forces eventually washed their hands of Abdul Sabri, declaring him too violent. But the most bizarre thing? Sabri used to torture and slaughter the same extremists he now works for. Makes little sense.”

  “Maybe the ‘what’ is more important than the ‘who’ for Major Sabri,” Haldane said.

  “Maybe.” Clayton frowned skeptically. “Regardless, Sabri is one dangerous S.O.B. And the Egyptians are convinced that he was behind the murder of the policeman in Cairo. In fact, they believe Eleish jumped over his own railing to avoid Sabri’s notorious torture technique.”

  “Poor man.” Gwen shook her head in disgust. “Are we any closer to locating Kabaal, Sabri, or their lab?”

  Clayton tapped a key. A map of Somalia, sandwiched between Ethiopia and the Indian Ocean, appeared on screen. Lines and colors divided it into various states and political allegiances. “We’re still working under the assumption they’re in Somalia.” Clayton cracked his neck from side to side. “We have several leads, but.. He held up his hands and sighed.

  “But nothing concrete?” Gwen asked.

  “Probl
em is, Somalia isn’t really a country in any traditional sense. It’s just a hodgepodge of gangs, tribes, and secessionists. The northern region regards itself as an independent state called Somaliland. As does the middle region, Puntland. The south is in disarray. Political and ethnic parties compete with the warlords and other opportunists for every square inch.”

  Gwen leaned forward in her chair. “So it’s impossible to, get any government cooperation with tracking these terrorists down?”

  “To begin with, there’s no government to cooperate with,” Clayton said. “But a bigger problem is that there are so many people up to no good—smugglers, drug traffickers, and other terrorist networks—that we’re finding all kinds of criminals crawling out of the woodwork. They know we watch from the skies with our satellites, so their movements are calculated to confuse.” Clayton hit a key and a few points on the map flashed in red. “We have picked up some unusual hot spots of cell phone and Internet activity at a number of sites. One just south of Mogadishu in Marka. Another outside Kismaayo. And one a few miles north of Hargeysa. We’re keeping a close eye on all of them.”

  Clayton tapped a key and the screen went blank. “We’ve put several more agents on the ground. I think the key to finding Kabaal and his lab will be human intelligence.”

  “Doesn’t sound like there’s much of that in the region,” McLeod deadpanned.

  Clayton ignored the remark. “Information is very cheap in Somalia. For twenty U.S. dollars many of the locals would sell out their own mothers. My gut tells me that’s how we’re going to find him.”

  Clayton nodded to himself and then, as if in afterthought, he pointed at Haldane. “Oh, yeah.” He grinned. “We’re bird hunting, too. See if we can find us some infected turkeys or something to lead us to the terrorists.”

  Just as Haldane was about to reply, Gwen touched him on the wrist and said to Clayton, “Alex, we scientists might surprise you yet with our usefulness.”