Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  He gave the interior a quick once-over. It was as busy as ever, though most of his original team had been replaced. Georges Manet, the wisecracking geologist, was one of the first to go. They fell like dominoes after that, including Pierre Anou, who fought back the hardest. Aside from a few technicians, only Akiro Tekano remained; even his indispensability was waning as fewer and fewer remote missions in the depths of Vishnov were contemplated for the unmanned probes.

  Gone, too, were the documentary filmmakers and other media who, for a time, swarmed the site as though it were the Disneyland of the South Pole. And over an outcry that had resonated in the scientific community but fallen on deaf ears everywhere else, the academics had been purged from the site, too. The Igloo now had an industrial look and feel, which suited Fontaine. After all, the structure had transformed from a research station into a factory.

  As always, Fontaine’s eyes fell on the massive platform in the center of the dome. It housed the same winch and cable as before. However, the circumference of the well had been widened. A thicker, flexible plastic pipeline ran alongside the cable and through the three kilometers of ice into the lake below. The custom-engineered heated pipeline could handle a flow thirty times that of the original cable.

  Fontaine turned to the tall blonde who stood beside him. Arms folded across her chest, her unreadable glacial blue eyes surveyed the site with an expression as impassive as ever. He studied her face, appreciating her striking bone structure, porcelain skin, and sensual lips. Whatever else people thought of Martine DeGroot—and Fontaine knew there was no shortage of negative opinions—no one could deny her physical beauty.

  “What do you think, Martine?” he asked.

  DeGroot shrugged noncommittally. “Impressive enough, I suppose,” she said in the crisp Dutch accent that stirred Fontaine from the moment he first heard it. “Then again, I do not have much of a reference point to compare to.”

  “No need to gush, Martine,” he snapped.

  Bitch! he nearly added. More than DeGroot’s apathetic response, Fontaine was infuriated by his own need to impress her. It had never happened before. Women had been the most dispensable commodities in his life, but now he found himself aching for validation from this beautiful and controlled biologist. Prior to meeting her, he had always been the one to turn the affection on or off like a switch. She had reversed the roles. And the more ambivalence she showed, the deeper he fell. Fontaine resented—at times hated—her for his loss of autonomy, but he was helpless to resist.

  DeGroot had met Fontaine three months after he first sampled Lake Vishnov. She bedded him—Fontaine had no misconceptions about who was in control, then or now—within a day of their meeting. They had been almost inseparable since. She was at his side when he announced the discovery of the never-before-seen bacteria, Arcobacter antarcticus, that thrived in the sulfur-rich, freezing black waters of Lake Vishnov. DeGroot had accompanied him on the initial publicity tour after his research was published in Nature. The tour had evolved into a celebrity press junket with the release of Jerry Silver’s IMAX documentary, which not only popularized the Vishnov discoveries but also helped launch the French scientist as a modern-day Indiana Jones. Then The New York Times published an editorial by a prominent astrophysicist that only added fuel to the fire. That scientist claimed that since the conditions in Lake Vishnov exactly replicated those found in the frozen oceans of two of Jupiter’s moons, Europa and Ganymede, finding life in the lake as good as proved the existence of extraterrestrial life.

  DeGroot’s detached approach to the hype surrounding Fontaine and his discovery helped to ground him. And he appreciated that she had not only been present at the glamorous destinations and high-profile events, but had joined him now as he slipped away from the spotlight and traveled to the bottom of the earth, just as she had accompanied him to Russia to face Yulia Radvogin’s wrath the previous summer.

  St. Petersburg, Russia. August, four months

  earlier

  Fontaine had visited St. Petersburg twice before, but he never found a chance to see much of the city. From what little he did take in between the airport, the hotel, and the boardroom of Radvogin Industries, he decided it might be worth exploring in the summer sunshine. However, as he sat in the ornate boardroom beside Martine and waited for Yulia Radvogin, sightseeing was the farthest thing from his mind. He had heard that Radvogin was displeased with him. And by reputation, she was not someone to cross. Ever. Rumor had it that despite the “narrowed coronary arteries” listed on her husband’s death certificate, the former CEO, Pavel Radvogin, had in fact been poisoned for betraying his wife with one of his younger assistants. (Moscow police could never establish anything beyond the “coincidence” that Radvogin had jogged ten miles the day before his heart gave out while climbing a single flight of stairs.)

  Fontaine’s stomach did a rare somersault when the door flew open and Yulia Radvogin swept into the room. Tanned, with gray-blond hair and pale blue eyes, at fifty-four, the curvaceous Ukrainian woman still effortlessly exuded sensuality. And she towed her usual entourage behind her. First, the tall and skeletal chief financial officer, Ivan Milahen, loped into the room, closely followed by her perspiring and fidgety lawyer, Anatoly Beria. Both men spoke so seldom in his presence that Fontaine wondered whether they grasped much of the English spoken at the previous meetings. The same two burly interchangeable bodyguards, Myron and Viktor, brought up the rear, the outline of their shoulder holsters visible through matching suit jackets that strained to contain their muscular bulk. Though the Russian bodyguards had not both been present at recent meetings, Fontaine tried not to read too much into this current show of force.

  Nothing in Yulia Radvogin’s approach suggested she was upset with Fontaine. She smiled warmly as she greeted him with open arms, grabbing him by the shoulders and kissing him on both cheeks. “How is my gorgeous scientist?” she said, pointedly ignoring Martine DeGroot. “Still the media darling, I hear.”

  “I’m well, Yulia.” Fontaine matched her smile. “And you?”

  “Trying to keep the company solvent,” Radvogin said with a dismissive flutter of her hand, though Fontaine knew that her multinational corporation had announced record profits in its previous quarter.

  Fontaine pointed to his companion. “Yulia, please allow me to introduce my associate, Dr. Martine DeGroot.”

  Radvogin’s smile flickered as she turned to DeGroot with a slight nod. “Dr. DeGroot.”

  “Martine, please. It’s an honor to meet you, Mrs. Radvogin,” DeGroot said, her face lighting. “I have heard so much about you and Radvogin Industries.”

  “I look forward to hearing something about you, Dr. deGroot,” she said, before turning back to Fontaine. “Sit, please.”

  Radvogin floated over to her seat at the head of the table. Her lawyer and accountant took the seats to her left. Fontaine sat in the chair to her right, and DeGroot beside him. The two bodyguards melted into the back of the room, though Fontaine felt their presence from more than just their lingering aftershave.

  Radvogin reached out and laid her hand on Fontaine’s sleeve. “It’s been a good year for you, Claude,” she said and gave his wrist a slight squeeze.

  “I’ve had worse,” Fontaine said, hoping to steer the conversation elsewhere.

  “I am sure you have. Between the newspapers and the television, I can’t even keep up.” She shook her head. “I understand there is talk of a Nobel Prize.”

  “Empty rumors, Yulia.” Fontaine brushed it off with a backhanded flick. “In academics, every time a scientist makes the newspaper, there is talk of the prize.”

  Radvogin laughed. “Denial is the politician’s confession.” She pulled her hand from his sleeve. “My point is, Claude, my money and my resources in the Antarctic have brought you fame,” she said, the warmth draining from her tone with each word.

  Fontaine bowed his head slightly. “You know how much I appreciate your investment.”

  “Your appreciation is wor
th nothing to me.” Her eyes darkened. “What is the news from the ATCP?” she snapped, referring to the Antarctic Treaty Consultative Parties, the international body that governs issues pertaining to the Antarctic.

  “I met with them last week in Oslo.” Fontaine took a deep breath. “As you know, based on their Environmental Protection Protocol of 1991, all oil exploration in or adjacent to the Antarctic has been banned until 2031.”

  Radvogin nodded impatiently. “Yes, yes.”

  “I told them that environmental preservation and economic development are not mutually exclusive,” Fontaine said. “I argued that with the price of crude oil hitting record highs in the past twenty-four months and the global supply running low, the time was ripe for oil exploration carried out safely away from the continental shelf.” He clasped his hands together. “Science and commerce, working side by side to a mutually beneficial end.”

  “But?”

  Fontaine cleared his throat. “They didn’t see it that way.”

  Radvogin’s eyes froze over. “And my well?”

  “I explained that Radvogin Industries would be far less able to maintain and offer international research access to the Vishnov site without the economic incentive of oil exploration in the area.”

  “And?” she added in a throaty whisper.

  “Yulia, they will not amend the treaty.” He met her stare. “Even for you.”

  Milahen stopped jotting notes on his pad. Beria stopped tapping the table. A few long moments of silence passed. “Two years ago,” Radvogin said as she quietly stared up at the ceiling, “you sat at this very table and promised me that if I supported your research, Radvogin Industries would be allowed access to that oil.”

  “I said I would do everything I could, I never promised—”

  The sharp slap of Radvogin’s palm against the mahogany table silenced Fontaine in midsentence. “Leave the legal technicalities to Anatoly!” she barked, thumbing at her openmouthed lawyer. “You gave me your word, Claude.”

  Radvogin glared at him, and Fontaine felt the eyes of her bodyguards burning into his back.

  As he opened his mouth to respond, Martine DeGroot leaned forward in her chair. “Yulia,” she said, surprising Fontaine by the use of her first name. “May I say something?”

  “What?”

  “In every setback there is opportunity,” deGroot said.

  Radvogin didn’t reply, but her face blanched and her lip quivered with rage.

  DeGroot smiled confidently. “Forget the oil, Yulia,” she said as if dismissing a glass of spilled milk.

  “Forget it?” Radvogin pushed herself halfway up from her seat. “You want me to forget tens of millions of dollars’ worth of my own money?”

  DeGroot’s smile grew wider, and she nodded. Fontaine welled with affection for the woman. Her steely poise was perfect.

  “Why would I ever do that?” Radvogin hissed.

  DeGroot let Radvogin’s loaded question hang in the air for a few moments before answering. “Because, Yulia,” she said with a laugh, “your well is sitting on something far more valuable than oil.”

  10

  Limoges, France. January 17

  After his rendezvous with the anonymous informer in the smoke-filled pickup, Noah wandered the still-dark streets of Limoges lost in thought and oblivious to the winter chill. Near the center of the city, he stumbled across a newsstand, where he bought a copy of the International Herald Tribune. At the end of the block, he spotted a small bakery with a few tables inside. The smell of fresh bread and pastries drew him in. Ignoring his cholesterol level, he ordered a butter-rich croissant and an espresso and then sat down with the paper.

  He had trouble concentrating on the words. Most of the articles passed through his brain like water through a sieve, but one story—concerning another leaked Al Qaeda videotape, whose spokesman promised “to rain blood and fire upon the West”—caught his attention. Since his brush with the Islamic extremist group that had propagated the ARCS virus as a weapon, he took all such threats to heart. He was certain that other terrorists must have learned from the ARCS nightmare, suspecting that for them it would serve more as an incentive than a deterrent. He thought again of Gwen Savard, who was charged with protecting her country—and, by extension, the world—from bioterrorism. More than ever, her job seemed impossible.

  He looked up from the paper and noticed the gray light of early dawn seeping into the bakery. More people had emerged on the street. He glanced at his watch, which read 6:35 A.M. He left a tip on the table and left.

  Heading back to the hotel, he wove his way along the city’s narrow side streets, which struck him as the epitome of provincial France. He decided he would like to return one day with Chloe to explore the historically rich and diverse region. He suspected Gwen would have loved the place, too. With a sigh that froze in the air, he imagined what a romantic getaway it might have made for them had circumstances been different.

  Noah stopped on rue St. Étienne to admire the striking thirteenth-century Cathedral of St. Étienne. He had read somewhere that it was the only example of Gothic architecture in Limoges. Staring at the two-hundred-foot-tall tower that loomed over him, he marveled at the ingenuity of the medieval engineers who managed to raise this massive structure at a time when the Black Death was ravaging the known world. It reminded him that scientific achievement never came easily. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for his distant predecessors, those primitive medical practitioners trying to cope with the great plague in a time of ignorance and superstition. Then as now, the unknown usually aroused the greatest fear in people, and he glumly wondered if they were now facing a new unknown in Limousin.

  Walking on, he reached the historic St. Étienne Bridge that spanned the dark and silent Vienne. Though tempted to cross it, he decided he had no more time for sightseeing. Turning, he glimpsed a tall woman in black pants, nylon jacket, and hat running along the river’s path toward him. He recognized her just as she called out his name.

  Elise slowed to a walk and then stopped in front of him, her breath crystallizing in the air and mist steaming off her body. She hunched forward, resting her hands on her thighs as she caught her breath. Despite the sweat and lack of makeup, when she looked up and smiled, her face lit up radiantly. “I thought I was awake early,” she said.

  “I’ve already had a meeting.”

  “Oh?” Her smile dampened. “With whom?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She shed the last of her grin. “What are you talking about, Noah?”

  “This morning, someone was waiting for me outside the hotel….” Noah went on to summarize his conversation with the man in the truck.

  Elise studied the ground in front of her. “Strange,” she murmured.

  “I’ll say,” Noah grunted. “How would he even know who I was?”

  “Your face was all over the news during the time of ARCS.” She gracefully swept beads of sweat off her brow with the back of her glove. “Like it or not, you are famous, Dr. Haldane.”

  He didn’t like it at all. “Even here?”

  “Of course,” she said. “And this man is a farmer.”

  “I said he might have been. I couldn’t see much of anything, except that his truck looked as though it belonged on a farm. And from what little I could make out, so might he.”

  “André Pereau probably spoke to his neighbors after our visit yesterday,” she said. “He might have given your name to any one of them, including the man in the truck.”

  Noah started to walk, and Elise joined him. “Okay, let’s assume he is a farmer from Terrebonne,” he said. “How did he find me here in Limoges?”

  She chuckled good-naturedly. “This is rural France. I don’t think it would be too hard to track down a well-known foreigner here. There are not many of you around.”

  Noah was unconvinced. “Why was he waiting for me outside my hotel before dawn?”

  She forced a weak smile and raised her gloves helplessly.
“Farmers start their day early.”

  “Come on, Elise.”

  “Obviously, he thought it was very important that you know.”

  “Obviously,” Noah echoed, still thrown by the unusual visit. “We’d better find out if what he told me about the cattle supplier is true.”

  Elise kept walking without comment. Noah stopped. A few strides later, Elise stopped and faced him, her face even more flushed. “Noah…”

  “Hold on,” he said, recognizing her contrite expression. “Elise, you already knew about the sick cows from Ferme d’Allaire, didn’t you?”

  She looked away in embarrassment.

  “Now who’s withholding information?” he snapped.

  “I heard only last night,” she said. “I was waiting for confirmation from Brussels.”

  “Unbelievable.” He shook his head angrily. “I’d give you my speech about how vital it is to keep each other in the loop, but I think you wrote it!”

  “I’m sorry, Noah,” she said quietly. “But I have superiors to answer to as well.”

  In a calmer voice he asked, “So all seven cases can be traced back to Ferme d’Allaire?”

  She wiped her brow again. “Six.”

  “What about the seventh?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “Six of seven. That’s pretty strong evidence that our index case comes from this ranch,” he said. “And what about the man’s claim that the feed is tainted?”

  “This is the first I have heard of it.”

  Noah shook his head. “When are we going to see this farm?”

  She pulled back the hem of her left glove and checked her watch. “In about two hours.”

  After eating the large croissant, Noah had little appetite left. He declined Elise’s offer to join her for breakfast, opting instead for a brief nap and a long hot shower.

  Pleasantly light-headed from the shower, Noah slipped into a pair of black pants and a T-shirt. He scanned the room before he spotted his gray sweater spread over the back of the chair in front of the small desk. His gaze was drawn to the mess he had made there. In addition to the original papers he had brought with him from Washington, since his arrival in Limoges a steady stream of articles and papers had accumulated by e-mail and fax via the hotel reception. He swept all the papers off the desktop and organized them in a pile beside the desk. He plugged in his laptop and logged on to the hotel’s wireless server. After downloading the long list of e-mails, he glanced through them and answered only a few of the most pressing ones.