by Fritz Galt
All the next day, Mick had remained in their apartment, holding his daughter’s limp hand and wondering if the next car or truck driving under their window would explode, thereby burying them under their aging apartment block.
The next morning, Mariah failed to rise from bed.
Mick and Natalie had called desperately around the city. Two doctors arrived from separate private clinics.
Each took his turn at her bedside while rain splashed off her window and drifted off in steamy clouds. They took her temperature, felt her abdomen and shined lights in her ears, nose and eyes. They drew her blood, pumped her full of antibiotics, taken Mick’s money and didn’t tell him a damn thing that he and Natalie didn’t already know.
It was probably malaria, but it might not be. Blood smears confirmed some sort of parasite at work, but none that they had ever seen before. Without a culprit, they had no cure.
They prescribed heavy doses of antimalarials. Two days later, they failed to bring down her fever or restore feeling to her limbs.
Desperate, he made airplane reservations to fly home to the States, wondering if Mariah could even sit up in a coach seat for the trip. He purchased tickets for first-class seats through to Minneapolis, where he and Natalie planned to have her admitted to the Mayo Clinic.
He had been in the process of pushing through Mariah’s med-evac travel orders when they had received devastating news.
The U.S. Department of Immigration would not allow Mariah to enter the country. Several years earlier, as part of a stepped-up disease surveillance campaign, America had imposed quarantine on all unknown and many untreatable communicable and infectious diseases, including malaria.
Mariah’s attention seemed to drift away until that awful night Mick would never forget.
Shortly past midnight, Mick awoke suddenly, certain he had heard a noise. He switched on his bedside lamp and saw a dark mass in the corner of his room. It was his daughter lying immobile in a crumpled heap, her face blue, her eyelids fluttering closed. She had crawled in for help from her bedroom.
Mick shouted, “Mariah’s unconscious.”
Natalie had shot up in bed and gasped with horror. Then she rushed to resuscitate her daughter, pinching her nose, blowing into her mouth and pressing down repeatedly on her chest.
Mick ran for the phone to wake up their driver.
By the time he returned to the room, his daughter had lapsed into a coma.
She would have died had they not put her on life support immediately at Breach Candy Hospital in downtown Bombay.
A part-time doctor at the consulate, working her network of friends in the Indian medical community, located a U.S.-trained specialist in tropical diseases living outside of the U.S. who would examine her. His name was Dr. Simon Yates, and he lived in seclusion on a tiny island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.
Mick smiled grimly across the table. “And the rest is history.”
“But your wife resisted coming here,” Simon said.
“Resisted? We nearly came to blows over Mariah. She was still holding out hope that the regional medical officer would break the travel restriction and fly down from Delhi. I had no faith in him coming, so I yanked her out of there.”
“You took Mariah away from her mother?”
“Natalie had to stay, she said, and she blamed it on me. Her job kept her there, she said, ‘cleaning up the mess with the nuclear test that I left behind,’ as she put it. She wanted Mariah to stay, too. I was mad as hell, so, in that sense, I guess you could say I abducted Mariah.”
Simon shook his head sadly. “It’s not the first time a family has disagreed over a patient’s treatment.”
“Glad to know it,” Mick said, tasting the bitterness.
“But there’s more to this, isn’t there? You blame each other.”
Mick hadn’t thought along those lines before.
“You know,” Simon continued, “blaming your partner is a very insidious thing. It goes deep and you don’t realize you’re taking out otherwise solvable problems on someone else. You’ve got to be aware of it before it eats up a relationship.”
Mick let him have his say. “I’d say it’s been devoured already.”
Simon pushed the newspaper his way. “Read the whole article. Tell me what you think.”
Abu followed the Arab soldier for nearly an hour through the dense Jammu jungle until they came to a campfire.
He would never have found his way there in a million deaths of Mohammed.
Nor could he have breached the security.
No sooner had he smelled the fire than he heard footsteps converging behind him. Walking stealthily through the woods, advance guards had been following his movements for several hundred meters.
In the trees surrounding the campfire, he noticed extra protection, thick-limbed men bearing AK-47 rifles.
Beside the fire, feeding himself a handful of rice with his fingertips, squatted Osama bin Laden.
The mercenary brought Abu directly to the man, who rose on long, thin legs to greet him.
Abu, frozen in a mental ice floe of international customs, militant protocol and Islamic tradition, blurted out, “You’re alive!”
Osama’s red-rimmed, mahogany eyes glittered in the firelight. “You speak a colonial language here. Why not Urdu?”
“We speak Urdu, of course.”
“Never mind,” bin Laden said. “English will do.” He resumed his squatting position. “Take a seat.”
Abu had never met the man before and never expected to see him again after the cruise missiles struck the terrorist university in Afghanistan. But that had not prevented him from fantasizing. He had never guessed that America’s Public Enemy Number One would ask him to squat beside him. Abu lowered himself so that his eyes were several inches below those of Osama bin Laden.
The gangly man minced no words.
“What is this I hear about mosquitoes?”
Abu swallowed hard. “Mosquitoes. That’s correct, sir. I have been cooking up a plan. I call it the Moghul Project.”
Bin Laden nodded for him to continue.
Abu began to relate his plan, already well underway. There was one part of the plan that he purposely left out. He would not mention the role of his brother, not only a medical researcher who provided him with the mosquitoes from Atlanta, but also the one who would ultimately provide him with the vaccine.
When he had finished, he looked up from the red clay and checked for a reaction on bin Laden’s gaunt face.
The great leader of Mohammed’s jihad against injustice to Muslims seemed perplexed. “And why are you doing this?”
“Sir, I have a dream that, on behalf of Allah, Praise and Glory be to Him, we introduce our Islamic codes and faith to new lands. Even while we concentrate on eliminating the weak regimes that erode the purity of our religion, and even though we target the American and Jewish Satans in our midst, we must move along a path of light and truth. My vision is to connect the Muslim world across Asia from Lebanon and Palestine, Iran, Afghanistan and Pakistan to Bangladesh, Burma, Malaysia, Singapore and Indonesia. The linchpin is India. She is the infidel in our midst. India once belonged to the Islamic Moghuls. Now she is governed by Hindu heathens. Once we conquer her again, we must expand our ways to other reaches of Asia where the seeds of Mohammed have yet to be sown. North through Tajikistan and Chechnya into Russia, East from Nepal into China and Mongolia.”
“Perhaps your name should not be Abu Khan,” Osama said with a smile, “but Genghis Khan.”
Abu chose to borrow a self-deprecating Afghan expression that played on the name “Khan,” meaning ruler. He said, “One who calls himself khan is not a khan.”
In truth, Abu was proud of his family name. He had often reflected that his ambitions of conquering Asia and Europe were similar to those of the bold and ruthless Genghis Khan. The Mongol ruler had succeeded in conquering a swath of land from China and Russia to Babylon.
In actuality, Abu rather fancied himsel
f a Moghul emperor, a Persian invader whose armies tamed much of the subcontinent and who built glorious mosques to Allah in the ashes of Hindu temples. The Moghul mosque at Ayodhya was built over Lord Rama’s birthplace and the seat of Rama’s mythological kingdom. And the world recognized the Moghul ruler Shah Jahan’s Taj Mahal as the pinnacle of Islamic devotion. More than anything, Abu sought to right the wrongs perpetrated against his people.
“I don’t have a great interest in India,” bin Laden said at last. “But I could be tempted. Already the plight of our brothers in Kashmir holds great sway over my emotions. But India is a country of over nine hundred million people, only two hundred million of whom are Muslim.”
“Do you realize what you have just said? ‘Only two hundred million?’ Those are my family and brothers struggling to break the chains of injustice, their political life strangled, their progress held back by police, murders and rape. My friend, if I may be so familiar, where else need one look?”
“I have interest, but I must protect my resources. Already I have a great plan in the works.”
Abu nodded. The Saudi multi-millionaire operated on a scale that he could only dream of as yet, but the West was beginning to force the financial structure of al-Qaeda further underground. “I have approached your organization for money before, but now I don’t need to.”
Bin Laden smiled inquisitively, “What resources do you have?”
Abu returned the smile. “In India, we have certain abilities to raise cash when we need it.”
“Rupees.”
“My latest goal is dollars. American.”
Bin Laden raised his arch-shaped eyebrows. “How?”
Abu relished the moment. “There is a certain American congressman arriving in Bombay with his family. He will provide us, Allah be willing.”
Bin Laden nodded. “I’m not averse to helping your Moghul Project. Liberating Kashmir is already one of my alliance’s military objectives. If you pursue India in the fashion that you have described, I will mobilize my network to help you.”
“You will supply me with men?”
“No, not men. Arms, training, logistical support, political support and contacts in West Asia, Europe and America.”
Abu felt a smile fill his face.
Osama continued. “You provide the initiative, and I can guarantee you this: I will declare a fatwa against Hindu India.” He held out his hand.
Abu gripped it enthusiastically, not minding that Osama bin Laden’s fingers dripped with lamb curry, vegetable oil and blood.
“Time for some analysis,” Simon said.
Mick looked up from Simon’s newspaper article.
The story noted that after several months of research, combing through data from the previous blasts and comparing results from seismometers around the world, U.S. geologists had detected a small explosion, but could come up with no scientific evidence of a subterranean hydrogen-bomb blast.
It had taken scientists over a month of work to verify this finding. Normally, geologists used a combination of data from earthquakes, earthquake ripple effects and previous bomb tests to estimate yield for a given site. This was easy for known test sites, such as those in the United States, Russia and China. But Pokhran, India’s test site, had had few earthquakes and only two verifiable previous subterranean blasts over a span of decades.
In the article, Indian scientists countered that the simultaneous explosions of two bombs at once may have canceled out each other’s vibrations.
“That would be as likely as a horn honking and a second honk rendering it mute,” one American scientist had said.
Geologists estimated that the blast recorded on their seismometers released the explosive equivalent of 15,000 to 25,000 tons of TNT, falling significantly short of the claimed yield of 100,000 tons of TNT, released by what Indian scientists said was a thermonuclear, or hydrogen, bomb.
Weapons experts quoted in the article said that India would need a blast of about 120,000 tons of TNT to demonstrate that it indeed had moved beyond the crudest atomic weapons and advanced to the much more sophisticated hydrogen bomb, which could explode at a thousand times the power of an atomic bomb.
“Does India have a hydrogen bomb?” one expert asked rhetorically. “I don’t see it. Does India have an atomic bomb like those dropped on Japan in 1945? In 1998, they had four fizzles, and one exploded, so clearly they were trying for something difficult. You can’t fail to explode TNT, so it probably was nuclear. This summer’s test clearly wasn’t a true thermonuclear bomb, but probably a fission bomb, perhaps boosted by a small amount of plutonium. I would say they have vastly overstated its potential.”
Simon wrinkled his forehead. “What do you think? Was that real?”
Mick shook his head and stared at his empty glass. “I don’t know. After a year of following those geeks around, I have absolutely no corroborating evidence that they made a real bomb.”
“How will Pakistan react?”
“Well, India tried to call Pakistan’s bluff in 1998, and it worked. Pakistan exploded five bombs two weeks later in response to India’s five. Then, for good measure, they exploded a sixth bomb several days after that. Geologists had positive readings that something did explode. India forced Pakistan’s hand, and what Pakistan showed us was sobering. This time around, Pakistan didn’t react. They either knew it was a bluff, or they are scared.”
“Next question, does it matter if it’s real?”
“In reality, it doesn’t matter. The past few years have shown that both countries are willing to demonstrate to the world that they are nuclear-ready, for strategic deterrence or for aggression, and to hell with nuclear non-proliferation and test ban treaties.”
“A scary specter.”
“Add to that the ease of selling off this technology to other countries or underground movements.”
“As in terrorists?”
Mick nodded.
Simon shook his head in disbelief.
“If they have the bomb,” Mick said, “who can stop them?”
“That’s one reason I’m living on a remote island,” Simon said, handing the waiter the empty bottle.
“Come on, doc. That’s not the real reason you’re living here.”
Simon looked dubiously at him.
“Tonight it’s all cards on the table, Simon. Why did you give up your chair at Tulane?”
Simon pried a piece of food from between two teeth and spat it into the grass beyond the terrace. “There was no commitment,” he said at last. “Nobody in the West cares about tropical diseases. Through hard work, lots of money and sheer luck, we’ve eliminated the nasties from the ‘Sweet Land of Liberty.’ To hell with the rest of the world. I guess it was the selfishness that finally got to me.”
“That’s one of the hardest parts of diplomacy,” Mick agreed. “Knowing that you’ve got it good, and they don’t, and your country doesn’t particularly care about them. You can step outside your door in India and literally touch the problems, fix them on a case by case basis for a couple of rupees here and a few rupees there, but you don’t. You don’t because your country doesn’t.”
Simon wasn’t talking. Mick was saying it all.
“We talk with other countries only when we want something. Their oil, their military cooperation, their markets. We don’t come because we’re genuinely interested in them, or even respectful. It reminds me of the colonial days, when every spot of land on the globe was owned by some European monarch. Americans used to know what it felt like to be owned, but we’ve forgotten. No wonder everyone’s so damned mad at us.”
Simon contemplated Mick’s anguished face. “India is a pretty overwhelming place, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Mick said with a shake of his head. Then he looked up. “But it isn’t just India. There isn’t a country on the globe that doesn’t have some major gripe with us. Of course, at the embassy or consulate we write it all off as jealousy as long as we can, but sooner or later, we come to realize that there�
��s more to it. Take defense alliances, nuclear reduction treaties, resolutions on greenhouse gasses, the World Trade Organization. America has only its own interests at heart. We’ve practically made a religion out of self-interest. And do you want to know the strangest part of this?”
Simon nodded.
Mick looked beyond the lighted coconut palms to the inky stillness where a dhoni water taxi, cooling off after dropping off another group of tourists, gently creaked against its moorings. “When we do get involved, we either interfere too much or too little. We don’t stop to listen. We don’t know how to keep our distance, and we don’t know how to truly help. We’re like parents who smother a child with affection one moment and let the child die of neglect the next. Millions of diplomats running around the world know that, but it’s Washington that calls the shots.”
“Amen.” Simon sighed heavily, then rocked to his feet. “Gotta go,” he said.
Mick rose and shook his hand, then watched Simon walk heavily away.
He dropped back into his chair in the dark restaurant.
Having laid out for the doctor his side of the entire saga, Mick realized that he had already begun to work through his shock at Natalie’s most recent revelations.
He watched the hotel staff tidy up around the swimming pool and turn off the underwater lights. Staring into the pool’s dark water, he began to wonder what motives lurked behind Natalie’s shocking behavior.
Her pattern of selling him out must have begun over a year earlier, so it wasn’t a malicious reaction to his resignation. In fact, the opposite seemed true. She had calculatingly terminated his career. Neither had ever been jealous of each other’s career, and she had always put her family first. Something beyond her control must have driven her to trashing his life and their love. It had to be something very big.
He felt a cold sensation flooding his body, a terrible foreboding that something dark and entirely insurmountable stood in his path. He knew that whatever, or whoever, it was had become number one in her life.
He began to say good-bye to Natalie.