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Bat out of Hell

Page 7

by Alan Gold


  Nathaniel drew a deep breath and tried not to get angry. “Alistair, before the WHO team got there, your scientists hadn’t a clue about the source or the cause of this outbreak. Within minutes of the World Health team arriving, they’d sourced it to birds or bats. That’s one step closer to eliminating the problem. This could be a national emergency; surely you can’t object to a bit of help, can you?”

  Had it been a videophone, Nathaniel would have been able to see the British prime minister’s nostrils flaring in anger. “We haven’t needed US help since the Second World War, Mr. President, and even then you only came in at the last minute and took charge. Look, we’re not a mendicant begging for assistance. We’re one of the world’s most advanced societies, and it’s doing the morale of my people no good at all to know that our top brains are playing second fiddle to some international circus here for the glory. Order them home, Nathaniel, or I’ll kick them out.”

  The phone slammed down. Nathaniel looked at it in shock for several long moments, not quite believing what had just happened. Slowly he replaced the receiver and thought for several seconds. Then he picked it up again.

  “Shirley, get me Jenny Tan, will you.”

  ***

  She was tall and slender, and twenty years earlier she could have been a catwalk model lifting Armani to higher and higher levels. Her Asiatic eyes, blond hair, and porcelain skin defined her Japanese and Swedish heritage. Born in New York, she had been a precociously brilliant student and in her mid-thirties had become dean of political science at Yale. Advisor to the United Nations secretary-general, board member of the World Bank, and numerous other high profile positions had brought her to the attention of Nathaniel Thomas when he stepped down from his bioengineering business and began his run for congress. They’d stayed in close touch ever since, and when he began his run for the vice presidency on the joint ticket, he’d encouraged his running mate to make Jenny the ticket’s adviser on international political issues. Her brilliance, contacts, and global perspective had enabled both of them to triumph over their opponents in the television debates and town hall meetings. When he became the occupier of the Oval Office on the sudden incapacitating illness of the president, Nathaniel had asked for, and received, the resignation of the secretary of state and had put Jenny in charge. Her extraordinary skill as a negotiator, seducer, and power-packed intellectual had won over numerous intransigent world leaders. It was Jenny’s brilliance that had cobbled together nearly one hundred countries to accept a rapid response team to make change in a nation where there was a sudden outbreak of a virulent disease capable of causing a pandemic.

  And now the first to sign the agreement, Britain, faced with the reality of an international team in its territory, was suddenly saying that it didn’t need or want help.

  “Of course he retains sovereignty, Mr. President. He’s the prime minister.”

  “But he’s a signatory to the UN Charter on Pandemic Diseases. He was the second after us to agree to be bound by the terms of the charter. He signed on the goddamn dotted line. Surely we’ve got the right to insist that our people stay there.”

  “Firstly, it’s not a pandemic. Not yet. It’s been confined to an area of London. It hasn’t crossed a national border. Secondly, the charter states that the UN can only ask if it can place its rapid response team within the boundaries of a signatory nation that is suffering an outbreak, but it has always given the government of that country the right to determine how long they’ll stay and under what conditions. It’s the same terminology as is used in UN charters governing peace keeping forces . . . they’re invited in and they can be expelled at the will of the government. It all comes down to sovereignty, I’m afraid, Mr. President,” she told him.

  He breathed deeply. “So that snotty English bastard can kick us out and we might suddenly have a global outbreak of an incurable disease on our hands . . . just because he sings God Save the Queen in his bathtub.”

  She nodded.

  “Okay, get over there by tonight and talk to him. See if you can convince him that our people have to stay. Remind him that this disease might be under containment at the moment, but it’s 100 percent fatal. If it breaks out somehow, it could be as devastating at the Black Plague.”

  Jenny nodded. “I’ll get over there immediately.” She stood to leave his Oval Office.

  “Jen, just be careful, won’t you. Don’t do anything stupid like going on a site visit to this infected school just for a photo opportunity.”

  She looked back and flashed her universally famous smile. “You’re the politician, Mr. President. Not me.”

  ***

  Protocol demanded it, but the foreign secretary was infuriated at being dragged from his bed to greet Air Force Two at Heathrow in the middle of the night. The British government had been informed hours earlier that the US secretary of state was making an unofficial visit to speak with the prime minister about the WHO’s rapid response team’s tenure in Great Britain, but nobody at Number 10 had thought to inform the foreign secretary. Suddenly the prime minister’s personal assistant had remembered protocol, and although he wouldn’t be in the discussions that Secretary Tan would be having with the PM, the foreign secretary had to greet her on the tarmac, kiss her on the cheek as she descended the plane, and ride with her to the US Embassy where she’d catch up on a quick nap before breakfast at Downing Street.

  As she descended the steps from the huge Boeing 747, she smiled at Paddy Cronin and knew from his hunched up body that right now he’d much rather be in bed. Beside him stood the tall and elegant figure of the United States ambassador to the United Kingdom.

  “Paddy,” she said as she stepped over to kiss him. “I’m so sorry to have dragged you out. You know I hate all this protocol business.”

  “Jen, my darling,” said Cronin, “without all this protocol business, there would be no Great Britain.”

  She smiled and shook hands with her ambassador, who hung back as they walked to the convoy of cars to enable the two leaders to speak in private.

  When he was sure that nobody could overhear, Cronin said, “Now, what the hell are you doing in the UK? Why are you seeing our esteemed leader? The bugger’s told me nothing whatsoever, just that you’re here representing Nathaniel and talking privately. What’s it all about?”

  “Can’t tell you, my sweet; your ‘lord and master’ Alistair Blain and my ‘God who walks on water’ Nathaniel Thomas have had a lover’s tiff, and I’m here to ensure that they continue to screw each other, in the nicest possible way, of course.”

  They got into his Rolls Royce. “What was the quarrel about? Oh, come on . . . you know I’ll keep schtum.”

  “Darling, of all the foreign ministers of all the countries in the world, you’re the least able person I know to keep schtum. However, a man of your insight should be able to hazard a guess.”

  She remained silent.

  “I assume,” he said, “that it has something to do with our sovereignty over dealing with this horrible disease that’s suddenly erupted. The PM’s been ranting and raving about it since yesterday.”

  She smiled, patted him on the knee, and said softly, “Isn’t London beautiful at this time of year.”

  Paddy Cronin sighed. “Oh shit. I was afraid of that.”

  ***

  Five hours later, Secretary of State Tan was sitting in the dining room of 10 Downing Street with the prime minister of the United Kingdom, eating a breakfast of grapefruit, toast and English marmalade, muffins, and Earl Grey tea. In silver salvers on the credenza were bacon, sausages, cooked tomatoes, mushrooms, and something that he’d explained was bubble and squeak, a dish that sounded as disgusting as it looked. She’d passed on the cooked stuff, contenting herself with a continental breakfast.

  When she’d first met him three years previously, she’d found his Scottish accent lilting and his speech lyrical. Now, in the pit of his barely restrained anger, she found him hard to understand, harsh, and ruthless.

  �
��Jennifer, my dear, you’re failing to understand. These scientists of yours are unnecessary. Our people can handle this crisis. We handle medical crises all the while.”

  “They’re not my scientists; they’re from the World Health Organization. And I’m well aware, Alistair, of the quality of British medicine . . .”

  “No, you’re not! Our researchers from the UK have won the Nobel Prize for medicine twenty-eight times in the past century. We’re world leaders. We don’t need some Israeli or Frenchman or Italian to tell us how to conduct this investigation.”

  “This is a global problem, Alistair,” she insisted. “We’ve seen outbreaks erupt in the past couple of years in Niger and Venezuela and Indonesia and . . .”

  “Precisely. The reason we signed the charter was to help these Third World countries whose populations could be eliminated by a pandemic. But not us. Not Britain. We can handle our own problems, thank you very much.”

  She felt like shouting at him but sipped her Earl Grey to calm down. “Alistair, can’t you see the message you’ll be sending to the Third World if Britain kicks the rapid response team out? Think about AIDS and Thabo Mbeki of South Africa. Remember what his minister of health did?”

  Alistair Blain wiped his mouth with a napkin and said, “No, remind me.”

  Jenny Tan reached down into her briefcase and withdrew a letter. “This was sent to the president of South Africa in 2006 by the world’s leading health professionals.”

  She handed him the letter. He took it and put on his reading glasses.

  Mr Thabo Mvuyelwa Mbeki

  President

  Republic of South Africa

  Dear President Mbeki

  EXPRESSION OF CONCERN BY HIV SCIENTISTS

  We are members of the global scientific community working on HIV/AIDS who wish to express our deep concern at the response of the South African government to the HIV epidemic.

  HIV causes AIDS. Antiretrovirals are the only medications currently available that alleviate the consequences of HIV infection. The evidence supporting these statements is overwhelming and beyond dispute. We are therefore deeply concerned at how HIV science has been undermined by the South African Minister of Health, Dr Manto Tshabalala-Msimang.

  Before and during the XVI International AIDS Conference, Dr Tshabalala-Msimang expressed pseudo-scientific views about the management of HIV infection. Furthermore, the South African government exhibition at the Conference featured garlic, lemons and African potatoes, with the implication that these dietary elements are alternative treatments for HIV infection. There is no scientific evidence to support such views. Good nutrition is important for all people, including people with HIV, but garlic, lemons and potatoes are not alternatives to effective medications to treat a specific viral infection and its consequences on the human immune system. Over 5 million people live with HIV in South Africa. According to the best estimates of South African actuaries, over 500,000 people without access to antiretrovirals have reached the stage of HIV-disease when they now require these medicines to save their lives.

  He looked up from reading the letter without bothering to finish it and said, “But this is precisely my point. Your team has to deal with Third World, not First World nations. I don’t expect my health minister to recommend potatoes for the treatment of whatever is happening in Cricklewood. If he did so, I’d fire him instantly.”

  “And that’s precisely my point, Alistair. If idiots like this South African health minister or counterparts in other Third World nations see Britain standing alone, refusing help, being all puffed up and isolationist and patriotic, then it’ll be a clue for how they should act. The only way we’re going to deal with this problem is by every country, yours and mine included, saying to the global community that these outbreaks are a worldwide problem, and the world has to come to every country’s aid to deal with them.”

  The prime minister handed her back the letter. He sighed. “Look, Jennifer, don’t think I’m unsympathetic to your argument. My problem is that there are rumblings in the media about this team. Not their professionalism or their expertise—simply the fact that the disease must be far worse than we’re admitting if a country like Great Britain has to call for help with a problem that we’re incapable of solving ourselves. The public panic has been huge because of this damn outbreak. Your team suddenly flying in like supermen to Gotham City has made the panic a lot worse. It’s as though the British government is out of ideas, out of control.”

  “How bad has the panic been?” she asked.

  “As bad as it gets. Britons are stoic in the face of adversity. During the war, we all pulled together during the Blitz. When the Islamic terrorists killed fifty people on the trains and buses, the first thing we Britons did was to show them we weren’t going to be intimidated, and we immediately got back on the trains and buses as though nothing had happened. Life went on as normally as possible. But this! Microbes falling out of the sky infecting anybody and everybody. A mortal enemy that’s too tiny to be seen by a microscope. An indiscriminate killer of men, women, and children that could hide in soil or leaves or food or birds or bats and one touch and you’re dead. The whole of London’s in a panic. Outside of the quarantine areas and restrictions on travel, people are leaving the city in the hundreds of thousands. The streets in Central London are empty. The suburbs are ghost towns. The Midlands and north of England are overcrowded with people begging for hotel accommodation or staying in overcrowded conditions with relatives.

  “We’ve done everything in our power to calm people down, to tell them that the infection is isolated, but nobody’s listening. People are hoarding food, medicines, liquids. It’s an end-of-the-world scenario being played out in England’s green and pleasant land,” he said, stirring his tea for the umpteenth time. “We have to convince our people that we’re handling the situation calmly and efficiently, or we’ll be in terrible trouble. And we have to show Britons that we’re doing it on our own. That’s why your team being here has been such a disaster for my government.”

  She nodded, and for the first time understood the enormity of the prime minister’s problem. It wasn’t just his countrymen and women who were in a panic; it was also him. From the way he was sounding, he was one decision away from imposing martial law, from ordering armed police on every street corner, from creating concentration camps and badges for aliens. He was making his country seem as though it was Nazi Germany before the war. She had to convince him that his country was simply suffering from an unidentified virus. Once the reservoir had been established, it would be eliminated, and the problem would be solved.

  “How’s about we take the pressure off your shoulders by getting the secretary-general of the United Nations to have a press conference in which he says that, with your consent, he invoked the conditions of the charter and Britain is leading the way by inviting in an international team, working with some of the best British scientists around. That it was you who said this is a problem that the world has to work together to solve, and as a result, you’ve strongly suggested that the team comes into Great Britain to assist your scientists and medical practitioners. And that you’ve done this to assure Third World countries that international cooperation is the only way we’re all going to beat this new and undiscovered menace and that this is how all nations, even the world’s most developed, have to behave in the face of a future epidemic.”

  The prime minister of the United Kingdom smiled for the first time since she’d entered Number 10. “Could you get him to do it?”

  “Absolutely. And you’ll hold a press conference, televised at precisely the same time. You could even be joined by satellite—he in New York, you in London—so that it seems as though you and the secretary-general are singing from the same hymn sheet. Surely, that’ll take the pressure off your government. And it’ll explain to the people of Great Britain why the rapid response team is here. At least that level of panic might be ameliorated.”

  He stood from the table and helped himsel
f to more food from the credenza. “That could work. You’re a smart lady, Jenny Tan. Very smart.”

  4

  OFFICES OF MIDNIGHT RECORDS LOWER MANHATTAN

  His face was one of the best known in the world. People living in rural China, in South American shantytowns, and on the steppes in Mongolia were as familiar with his craggy jawline, his hairstyle, and his aviator glasses, as were black metal aficionados in the heart of Chicago, Paris, and Moscow. Everybody knew his voice, which ranged from growling threats in lyrics such as “If you do it, I’m gonna getcha getcha getcha,” to the universally imitated “when a man loves a woman, his heart’s a shared vessel,” a line that earned him an additional fortune in royalties since it had been taken up by greeting card companies.

  As a singer and a songwriter, his sales had eclipsed the Beatles and the Rolling Stones put together. He was America’s favorite recording artist. According to a cover of Time Magazine last year, he was the “Voice of America.”

  Jay Silvester, mega-philanthropist—intimate of Hollywood superstars, network talk-show hosts, prime ministers, and presidents—sat and listened in amazement as Tom Pollard, president of CHAT, Citizens for Humane Animal Treatment, told him what the British government was about to announce.

  “You’re shitting me. You’re fucking shitting me,” he said.

  Pollard shook his head.

  “Birds?”

  “And bats.”

  “You’re shitting me. Tell me this is a joke.”

  “My source in our government has found out, and remember she’s got the ear of the health secretary, that all flying animals—birds, and bats in London and immediately surrounding districts—will be caught, culled, murdered, exterminated. Poisoned. Gassed. These morons from this rapid response group . . . freakin’ lunatics . . . have decided without a single scrap of evidence that the cause of this outbreak in North London is a virus found in the body of birds and/or bats. They’re not sure, and so they’re going to exterminate every animal that flies. Birds and bats. Of course, all our research shows it could just as easily be mosquitoes or other flying insects, but no, they’ve fixed their minds on birds, and that means good night and good-bye. And it’s just to placate Londoners. The other thing our research scientists have told us is that if the virus is localized to a relatively small area of London, that it can’t possibly be birds or bats, but has to be fleas or rats something in the food.

 

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