by Andrew Tudor
Richard leaned across the table towards her as if to impart an important confidence. “Well, after all you are an alien in their midst, a representative from a neighbouring country with whom we have an uneasy relationship. Someone who is not to be trusted. Has it occurred to you that it’s a show for your benefit?” He leaned back in his chair with the smug look of a chess player who has just made a compelling move.
Ali bristled at the condescension. “Yes, of course it bloody has. But at every meeting? Even on issues of no significance at all? Besides, all the stories you’ve been telling me reflect that same passivity, the same constant deferring to authority. And you’re not dealing with dangerous aliens like me. I think it’s something else. I think you’re all so used to taking the lead from higher up that you’ve become terrified of disagreeing.”
“That’s not true.”
The irritation was clear in Richard’s voice, but Ali was on a personal hobby horse now and his discomfort wasn’t going to stop her.
“Don’t you understand?” she continued. “This is why we left the UK. Year after year we could see governments becoming increasingly authoritarian, brooking no disagreement on policy in spite of contrary evidence, favouring the rich and powerful, even bringing them into government as ministers who had been elected by nobody. For pity’s sake, you’ve now even got military commanders as permanent members of Cabinet.”
Richard seemed taken aback at the force with which she levelled this accusation, and, truth be told, she was a little surprised herself.
“It’s because strong leadership is important,” he said, “without it we wouldn’t be able to hold our own in the world. The people want leaders to decide things for them, and for that to work the rest of us need to get into line. You can’t go round querying policies all the time. It would make the system unworkable.”
“But you have to do exactly that,” Ali retorted. “It’s by arguing things through that you work out what are the best options. Just playing follow-my-leader confirms for those in positions of power that they have every right to be there, and pretty soon they become de facto dictators, convinced that they always know best and that everyone else should simply do what they say. And you know where that leads? To massive control over all aspects of people’s lives whether they want it or not. Just think of…”
“No, no,” he interrupted her. “We have traditions, checks and balances that stop that happening. It’s part of the whole English heritage. We like to have strong leaders to push us forward. Think of Churchill or Thatcher or Blair.”
“Every single one of whom,” Ali shot back, “whatever good they may have done, also did things which had terrible consequences, and which they were able to do only because of this foolish belief that the great leader knows best.”
That said, Ali felt a little calmer, recognising that Richard’s litany of heroes was so far from reflecting anything that she believed in that she couldn’t hope to persuade him otherwise. He would never understand that it was the culture of blind deference in which he put his faith that had led, little by little, to severe restrictions on people’s freedom. But to him that was the inevitable price to be paid for stability and social order, for peace and safety.
He was looking at her quizzically now, uncertain what to say next.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said, “it’s your country. As long as you leave Scotland alone I guess I can live with it.” She smiled, half to herself at the uncharacteristic act of backing down, half at Richard as a kind of peace offering. He looked relieved.
“It’s not worth us fighting about,” he said. “Let’s go home.”
Back at his flat they sat down to a nightcap and some gentle music on the sound system, talking of trivial things and both working hard to avoid topics which might reopen the argument. Ali would have quite liked to go home, but it was late and she was too tired to make the effort, so when Richard suggested that they go to bed she was happy enough to comply.
They lay for a while without touching, as if there was now a border between them as clear and real as that between Scotland and England. Ali turned away from him to switch off her bedside light and remained in that position. But after a few uncomfortable minutes he cuddled up to her back and, slipping his arms around her, cupped one of her breasts. She could feel his erection as he pressed against her. She turned to face him. Oh well, she comforted herself as she reached for his cock, this won’t take long and it’s definitely going to be the last time.
2
After a cursory goodbye to Richard, Ali was on her way early next morning, snatching a cup of coffee and a croissant from a stall in the Underground. It was only a three-stop ride – had she not been in a hurry she would have walked – but there was packing to finish and a train to catch. She raced around the flat, adding a small backpack to the suitcase and filling it with the items she might want on the journey, including Irene’s package. Then, as she picked up the suitcase, she noticed a scrap of the colourful wrapping paper on the floor behind it. Had she damaged the parcel? Taking it out of the backpack she turned it over in her hands, examining all sides. It was intact. She looked more closely at the paper fragment and saw that it had a curve drawn in black marker pen on it. Part of Charlotte’s name which, characteristically, Irene had scrawled right across one side of the packaging. But on the parcel itself the name was complete. How strange. Perhaps, then, Irene had made a mess of the original wrapping, rewrapped the gift, but left a fragment of the original in the bag. Of course, that was it, and shaking her head at her own obtuseness Ali picked up her baggage and went on her way.
Kings Cross was quiet when she arrived. This was not unusual in Ali’s experience, although it always struck her as strange. She remembered the excitement of first visiting London with her parents some twenty years earlier when Kings Cross seemed like the busiest place she had ever seen. Queues of people in all directions, a constant stream of announcements coming over the public address system, busy shops, cafés and bars. Now the arrival and departure board listed only half a dozen trains, while the great open area which used to be packed with travellers had just a few people wandering across it. And everywhere she looked there were armed and uniformed security guards.
Since her train was already boarding, Ali joined the small queue waiting to pass through security. The guards at the gate were running luggage through their X-ray machines and carefully examining documents, electronic pass-cards, and biometric ID details, a process which took some time and over which they were in no hurry. They appeared to quite enjoy this small exercise of power, especially when the prospective passenger proved to be a Scot. Tourists, who were mostly in closely marshalled groups, were waved through much more speedily than those bearing Scottish IDs, a process which would no doubt be defended in terms of the economic need to encourage tourism, but which was clearly also a reflection of the low-level ill will informing so much of officialdom’s attitude to the disagreeably independent Scots. Accustomed though she was to such barbed inconveniences, they remained enough of an irritant to ensure that she didn’t smile back at the young guard who favoured her with an openly appraising look, and who then took twice as long to check her biometrics.
But at last she was through and, finding her seat, settled in for the two-hour journey. The carriage was nowhere near full and she was one of only a handful of domestic travellers. Most of the passengers were foreign tourists, largely from Asian countries, travelling to York to admire the Minster and the Walls, and to be toured around the city where they would be parted from their money. Ali put in her ear-buds, chose a recording of Bach Partitas for solo violin, and absently watched the English countryside fly past the window as she lost herself in the music. She had just listened to the famous Chaconne from the second Partita when her concentration was disrupted by a thought nagging at the back of her mind. What was it? She switched off the music and focused on recovering the thought. It was something Richard had said.
Suddenly it came to her. When he had been trying to persuade her to go out to dinner he had said that they wouldn’t get another chance for a while since she would be away. But she was certain that she had not told him that she was due back in Scotland that week, let alone that she was now travelling on the very next day. How had he known?
Set off by that one puzzling question, her mind raced as odd fragments of information began to link up. There was Irene’s strange behaviour: her pretence that Ali was due to travel north two days earlier than had been her declared intention; her conviction that they were being listened to; her watchfulness during their lunch; and the enigmatic message that she had given Ali to convey privately to Sarah. Then, on top of all that, Richard’s unusually insistent demand that she dined out with him on the evening following the odd encounter with Irene. In fact, now that she gave it more thought, the general peculiarity of her whole relationship with Richard which, she now recognised, had been entirely driven by him. Seen in this context the fragment of wrapping paper took on new significance. Of course Irene couldn’t have rewrapped the parcel. She had brought it directly from the gift shop who had surely wrapped it for her. Someone had been into Ali’s flat while she was out with Richard, checked the contents of the gift, and rewrapped the parcel with identical paper. Improbable though it sounded, it was the only explanation that she could come up with.
The more she thought about it the more convincing it became. Irene clearly believed herself to be under surveillance, and if that were so then surely it would also be true of Ali. As Richard had been at pains to point out, she was an alien intruder from a problematic country. When she had been first appointed to the SLE, their training had involved warnings about the various UK intelligence agencies and their willingness to use all sorts of methods to acquire information and, thereby, keep control of Scottish/UK relations. Was Richard a part of that? She didn’t want to believe so, if only out of reluctance to admit her own gullibility, but, ever the scientist, she had to concede that the hypothesis was disturbingly plausible.
She was still mentally testing all the possibilities when the train arrived in York. After calling Sarah to say that she would be at the university soon, she boarded one of the frequent shuttles and tried to calm herself by watching the old city go by. As ever, the Minster looked splendid in the sunshine while the Walls were peopled by continuous streams of tourists. Soon the shuttle arrived at University Road and from the campus central drop-off point she walked up to the Medical School and presented herself at Reception.
“Alison MacGregor to see Dr Sarah Johnson,” she said. The receptionist checked her proffered ID in a rather more desultory fashion than she had experienced at Kings Cross, made a call, and announced that Sarah was on her way down. Minutes later she emerged from the lift and flinging her arms around her friend said, “Ali my lovely, it’s always great to see you. Let me look at you. You look good. You must be enjoying London. Shall we go up to the lab? You can leave your suitcase down here and we’ll pick it up on the way home.”
Ali, who now wanted nothing more than to get Sarah on her own to give her Irene’s message and so find out what it was all about, proposed that since she had been stuck on a train all morning it would be good to first take a walk in the fresh air. “You know how much I enjoy the lake,” she added, knowing that Sarah, too, delighted in the waterways that meandered through the centre of campus. Leaving her baggage at Reception, the two women walked down the hill to the lakeside, picked their way through a gaggle of geese, and set out to circumnavigate the tree-lined water.
Now that she had reached the nub of her visit Ali suddenly felt reluctant. “Irene asked me to give you a message,” she ventured finally, “she insisted that it was for you alone.”
“Oh, what’s got into my mother now? Why couldn’t she just call?”
“She was very firm that I kept it just between us. I got the impression she thought she might be under some kind of surveillance.”
Sarah stopped walking and turned to face Ali. “Surveillance? Really? That’s not like Mum. She’s not generally paranoid. So what was this important message?”
“I don’t understand it at all,” Ali replied, “but she said I was to say ‘Zeno is in the wild’. Just that. She said you would know what it meant.”
Sarah’s eyes widened and she looked at Ali in palpable disbelief. Ali nodded. “Zeno is in the wild,” she said again. “That’s exactly it.”
Sarah was silent for a minute then half shook her head and said “Oh shit!” And again, this time more vehemently: “Oh shit!”
Grabbing Ali by the arm she pulled her towards a nearby bench overlooking the water. “Come and sit down – I need to think for a minute.”
Spotting the two women approaching the bench, a flock of ducks rushed over quacking as they came. They were accustomed to being fed from here but when, after some pestering, Sarah and Ali showed no signs of producing food they waddled off in search of other benefactors. Sarah remained silent for several minutes then, turning to Ali, said, “I guess my mum expects me to tell you what the message means otherwise she would have found some other way to let me know. How much do you know about virology?”
“What most people know, I suppose. The study of viruses, how they relate to disease, and so on. I’ve met a few researchers in the area.”
“Well, you’ll know that in this century there have been huge advances in applying genetic engineering techniques to viruses, a lot of it aimed at eliminating diseases and developing vaccines to promote immunity. Some of my work involves that.”
Ali nodded. “Yes, you’ve told me about it.”
“But that isn’t the only way in which genetic manipulation can be used,” Sarah continued, “there are much less benevolent approaches to messing with viruses. Because of that, governments have for years been worried that terrorist groups could weaponise disease, use it as a much more frightening threat than bombs. So most countries with the scientific know-how have secretly funded research into viral warfare – how we can combat it with vaccines and treatments, of course, but also how to create the engineered viruses in the first place. That’s the scary thing about researching vaccines – you need to have samples of the nasty bugs so as to design ways of defending against them.”
She paused and took a deep breath. “What I’m going to tell you now is a very well-kept secret. I only know because of Mum and because I put two and two together and made about a thousand. At the Porton Down Microbiological Research Centre they’ve developed a new technique for manipulating the genetic structure of viruses. It depends on something called the Zeno effect. Do you remember Zeno’s paradoxes from school?”
“Yes,” Ali replied, trying hard to recall. “Achilles and the tortoise. Achilles is chasing the tortoise, and each time he halves the distance between them but at the same time the tortoise has moved forward a little so Achilles never catches up.”
“Yeah, more or less. It’ll do anyway. You know about genetic drift, the fact that viruses mutate naturally over many generations?”
“Yes, it’s why we get different strains of flu and have to change our vaccines regularly.”
“OK. Imagine that you could engineer a virus so that it mutates more quickly. Much more quickly. Then our vaccines would be like Achilles and never catch up, because by the time they got near, the virus would already have mutated into some other strain. That’s it: the Zeno effect.”
Ali looked at Sarah in horror. “What viruses have they been experimenting with?”
“I don’t know for sure, but an educated guess would be all the obvious ones since they would assume that the terrorists would be prepared to try anything.”
She counted them off on her fingers.
“Smallpox for certain. In theory it’s been eliminated since the late 1970s, and although in some countries there are stockpiles of vaccine it would be a hell of a killer if it was reintroduced, even in its or
dinary form let alone as a Zeno variant. Ebola, I suppose. Its symptoms are well known to be horrific and, like smallpox, it would generate massive panic. Lassa fever perhaps, and a whole load of other haemorrhagic fevers too, as well as coronaviruses such as the one that causes SARS. And, of course, ordinary, familiar old flu, which can do enormous damage even if it’s not as dramatic and panic-inducing as smallpox or Ebola. The H1 strain that created the 1918 pandemic is estimated to have infected at least five hundred million people and killed somewhere between fifty and a hundred million of them.” She paused for a moment, staring blankly into space. “I’m afraid there’s an awful lot of choice.”
“So your mum’s message – Zeno is in the wild – means that a Zeno-engineered virus has escaped?”
“Yes,” Sarah replied with a deep sigh. “I’m afraid that’s exactly what it means.”
The two women sat in silence for a long time, looking out across the placid surface of the lake, past the trees and shrubs and flowers, past the familiar buildings. Finally Ali asked her friend, “How bad could it be?”
“It’s hard to say without knowing precisely what the virus is and the circumstances that led to it escaping. If it’s a small-scale accident and quickly discovered then, with the right precautions, its spread might be contained. But if it’s larger scale and not detected until some way into its development, then it could quickly reach epidemic proportions. If it spreads out of its immediate area to other countries and continents, then you would have a pandemic. And with a Zeno-engineered virus that most likely means worldwide chaos. But, as I say, a lot depends on which virus it is.”
“But if your mum knows about it now they must already be trying to limit its effects.”
“Yes, they must. What worries me is that she went to all the trouble of sending a message by this devious route through you. That makes me think that it must be really serious. If it was already contained, she wouldn’t have taken the risk.”