Cold Plague

by Daniel Kalla

  “I’m not sure if ‘sleep’ is the right word for it, but I was out for a good while.” He broke off the eye contact. “And you?”

  She shrugged. “I usually sleep well after wine.”

  “Then you must have been in a coma last night.”

  Her eyes widened in momentary amusement. Despite his embarrassment, Noah was struck again by her natural beauty. He cleared his throat. “Listen, Elise, I wanted to, um, clarify about last night. I hope you understand—”

  “We were drunk, Noah. It happens.” Her offhand dismissal of their encounter bruised his ego, but Noah was relieved to hear that the evening would not spill over into their professional relationship. “Sylvie Manet is expecting us.” She turned and headed for the door.

  Noah followed. “You spoke to Sylvie already?”

  “This morning. She sounded eager to see us again.”

  “Why eager?”

  “She wanted to discuss her brother.”

  “Philippe?”

  Elise shook her head. “Georges. Sylvie is worried about him.”

  Noah’s back tightened. “About what?”

  “She said she would explain in person.”

  Stepping out of the hotel, Noah was hit by a gust of moist wind. Though the air temperature had warmed considerably, the dampness brought a different kind of chill. They hurried halfway up the street where Elise’s BMW was parked. Together, they swept the wet snow off the windshield and climbed inside. As Elise pulled out of the parking spot, Noah checked over his shoulder, searching for a black Mercedes, but he saw only two or three cars and a couple of vans.

  Two blocks later, they turned onto a busier street, and in the side mirror Noah spotted a silver Audi sedan that made the same turn ten seconds behind them. The sight of the car cemented his resolve. “After we see Sylvie, we’re going to the police,” he said.

  Elise glanced sidelong at him. “As I said last night, I agree that it is time we do.”

  Noah had not intended it as a challenge, but rather than explain he held up a hand in apology. “Glad we agree.”

  Sylvie Manet met them at the door to her Lac Noir family home and led them into the ornate living room, explaining that her mother was still in the hospital. Following Sylvie’s example, Noah and Elise sat down in the wingback Louis XV chairs in front of the fireplace, which sparked and crackled even louder than on their previous visit, but Noah was glad for the warmth. Like Elise, he declined Sylvie’s offer of tea.

  Sylvie wore a gray sweatshirt and jeans. With her short black hair gelled back against her head, she looked scrubbed and free of makeup. Her slender hands cupped a mug of tea close to her flat chest. As she listened to Noah and Elise describe how her family linked all three of the vCJD victims, her brow furrowed and her intense almond eyes burned with concern.

  “I have never heard of Benoît Gagnon,” Sylvie said. “No surprise, though. Philippe never discussed his love life. Georges and I knew for ages that our brother was gay, but he insisted on hiding it from Maman.” She sounded disappointed. Studying her androgynous physique and style, Noah wondered if Sylvie might share her brother’s sexual orientation. “Philippe never brought any of his boyfriends home.”

  Elise nodded.

  “And the water?” Noah asked.

  Sylvie sipped her tea slowly. “During Philippe’s illness he used to go on and on about water and fire, but it never made much sense. I thought he was…”

  “Delusional?” Elise offered.

  “Something like that,” Sylvie muttered.

  “What about Giselle Tremblay?” Noah asked.

  “I knew her name sounded familiar before.” She nodded to herself. “Georges mentioned her once or twice. A local girl, I believe.”

  “From Saint Junien,” Elise said.

  “That’s right. When he came back to town last summer, he began dating her. I don’t think it was too serious, though.”

  “Why do you say that?” Elise asked.

  “Georges was heading back to the Arctic to spend the fall and winter there on a new research project.” Sylvie sighed. “My older brother is a charmer, but with his research and travel, he never settles down. He has not had a serious girlfriend in years. Philippe and I used to tease him that ice is far more precious to him than people.”

  “Do you know anything about the water that Giselle’s mother claims Georges gave her?” Noah asked.

  “This is the first I have heard of it. Though, most of last summer when Georges was home in Lac Noir, I was working in the lab in Bordeaux. I hardly saw him.” Sylvie frowned. “You don’t think it’s related to her illness, do you? It was only water, Dr. Haldane.”

  “We are simply being thorough,” Elise said.

  But Noah knew there was more to it than just thoroughness. “Where was Georges before the summer?” he asked.

  Sylvie squinted in concentration. “I get confused. Was he in the Arctic last spring? I am not entirely sure. And in the winter he might have been in Antarctica. He often does research there during our winter, their summer.”

  “Does he routinely bring back samples from his expeditions?” Noah asked.

  “I am afraid my brother is a real collector.” Sylvie offered the kind of embarrassed smile reserved for discussing a close relative’s eccentricity. “Not only research samples, either. He also brings back Eskimo art and all sorts of things he stumbles across on his trip. Since I am a biologist, he often brings me home samples of the arctic flora.” She turned her palms up. “Even though it’s of no real use to me.”

  “Sylvie, we need to speak to Georges,” Noah said urgently.

  Sylvie put her mug down on the table in front of her. The worry creased her face deeper than before. “Ever since your last visit, I have been trying to reach him. He hasn’t replied to any of my e-mails.”

  “When did he last write?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Where was he?” Noah asked.

  “He has been stuck for months at an observatory north of the Arctic Circle. A place called Axel Heiberg Island.” She sighed. “It is dark twenty-four hours a day there now. The storms have been particularly bad this winter. The icebreakers have not been able to get through. I am worried about him, Dr. Haldane.”

  “Is he with others?” Elise asked.

  “I don’t know,” Sylvie admitted. “He mentioned earlier that he was traveling with a graduate student. But Georges often does his research alone. I am afraid he is somewhat of a…”

  “Lone wolf?” Noah offered.

  Sylvie grimaced. “Pardon me?”

  “It means someone who likes to work alone,” Noah explained.

  “D’accord.” Sylvie nodded. “He is very experienced in living in extreme climates. This is not the first time he has been snowed in. And he always carries enough food and supplies to last a winter.”

  Noah eyed her steadily. “But?”

  Instead of answering, Sylvie rose from her chair and hurried toward the staircase at the far end of the room. Noah and Elise watched her go and then turned to one another with the same bewildered expression. They heard the patter of rapid footsteps on the floor above them, and a few moments later Sylvie came rushing back into the room, clutching a piece of paper.

  She handed it to Noah. It was a printout of an e-mail, though the text was in French. Elise leaned over and gently pulled the page from his hand. “From your brother?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Sylvie said.

  Elise studied the page. “From twelve days ago.” Then she began translating for Noah. “‘Dear Sylvie. Conditions are no better. The storm shows no sign of letting up. I don’t know when I will be able to get out. And the ships cannot reach me for weeks, maybe months.’” Elise paused. “‘I never minded the constant darkness before. I used to sleep so well, but I am hardly sleeping now. I keep thinking of Philippe. He was dying so horribly, and his big brother was not there for him. Not even at his funeral. I feel awful about that. And now Maman is in hospital, and I cannot see
her. If anything happens to her…Syl, I am embarrassed to tell you, but I cry all the time now. I am not getting any research done. Maybe it’s because I don’t sleep but my thinking is not clear. And I am having trouble remembering things.’”

  Elise glanced up from the page and briefly locked eyes with Noah. He knew Elise was wondering, as he was, if Georges might already be infected with the prion.

  Elise returned her attention to the page and resumed her translation. “‘All I want is to come home to be with you and Maman. I don’t know how much longer I can wait this out.’” She cleared her throat and then continued. “‘Ah, listen to me complain. I sound like an old woman, don’t I? I am going to stop feeling sorry for myself now and try to get back to work. In the meantime, cheer me up, Syl, and tell me what is new and exciting in your life. Send my love to Maman. Love, Georges.’” She lowered the page.

  Noah turned to Sylvie. “You haven’t heard from Georges since?”

  Sylvie shook her head. “His messages have sounded like that for a while. I thought he was depressed because of Philippe, Maman, and the storms. Then you came to see me with all this talk of the prion.” She stared at him, her eyes searching his for reassurance. “You don’t think that what he said about his memory troubles…”

  Noah measured his words. “I don’t know, Sylvie, but we have to find him soon.”

  “I even tried to raise him on his satellite phone, but I could not get through.” Sylvie folded her thin arms across her chest and seemed to sink into her chair.

  Noah mustered a smile. “We’ll find him. Meanwhile, we need to know more about that water he brought home last summer. Do you have any idea where Georges kept his research samples?”

  Again, without replying or even looking at Noah, she rose from her chair. This time there was no urgency in her step as she trudged toward the kitchen. Noah and Elise followed. Sylvie stopped in front of the refrigerator and opened the freezer door. She rummaged through the crowded contents. When she pulled her hand out, she held a labeled freezer bag.

  Noah took the small bag from her hand, surprised by the weight of it. He read the words on the label aloud: “Arctic, échantillon 0411B2307.”

  “Échantillon means sample,” Elise translated for him.

  He raised it up to eye level and studied the translucent hunk of ice with its bluish hue. Staring at it, he wondered if the source of the death and suffering in Limousin might somehow be suspended among its glacial crystals.

  Sylvie found a small cooler in the cupboard and they packed the little bag in ice. Silently, she walked her visitors to the door. They offered her a few hollow reassurances about her brother. With a promise to contact them as soon as she heard from him, Sylvie shut the door behind them.

  The cooler carefully stored in the backseat of her car, Elise drove them away from Lac Noir. Once on the highway, Noah checked over either shoulder but did not spot any silver or black sedans in the vicinity. Elise looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “Do you think that piece of glacier holds the answer to this outbreak?”

  “No idea.” Noah turned to her. “But we’d better get that ice off to the Institut Pasteur for urgent analysis.”

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Elise, let’s assume there are people deliberately meddling with this investigation.”

  “All right.”

  “Why?”

  “I can think of one possibility,” she said. “After all, the cattle trade is a major industry in France. In all of Europe.”

  “I realize.” Noah’s eyes were drawn to the mirror, as he again searched for a tail. “The French cattle trade is already in disarray. The ban aside, the public is spooked. Beef sales always plummet after an outbreak of BSE.” He turned back to Elise. “So how does derailing our investigation help the industry?”

  “You heard Javier. Now that we’ve pinpointed the source to Ferme d’Allaire, the E.U. is considering lifting its ban.”

  Noah nodded. “I see. If other farms have been hiding their sick cows, and they can make Ferme d’Allaire the sole scapegoat…”

  Elise tapped the steering wheel. “Then maybe they can minimize the financial damage.”

  “And maximize the human risk,” Noah said, almost wishing it were so simple. “It still doesn’t explain what happened to Louis Charron.”

  “We don’t know that anything more than alcohol and poor judgment were involved in the accident.”

  Noah grunted. “You think Charron was calling me because he didn’t want to drink alone?”

  “He wouldn’t be the only one to make that mistake,” Elise said, flushing slightly and focusing her eyes back on the road.

  He shook his head. “Charron had something important to tell me. I am certain of it.”

  “Maybe he came to the same conclusion we did,” she said. “Maybe he found something that pointed toward a cover-up of the extent of this outbreak.”

  Cover-up. The word resonated deep within Noah. “Wait a minute, Elise. What if…”

  “What, Noah?”

  He hesitated to put his thoughts into words. “What if the mad cow disease is a red herring?”

  “A red herring?” She squinted. “I do not understand.”

  “I mean, what if the illness among the cattle was used to mislead us?” Noah nodded to himself. “Don’t forget, the bovine cases came after the human case. And you heard what your friend Maurice said. The affected cows have not shown nearly as advanced a stage of the disease.”

  Elise viewed him silently.

  “All the human victims are now connected,” Noah went on. “Then there is the issue of the water that seemed to affect Philippe Manet and Giselle Tremblay. And, just maybe, Georges Manet, too.”

  Elise’s head snapped toward Noah. Her eyes darkened. “Are you suggesting that the human victims did not get their illness from the infected animals?”

  Noah nodded. “We have to at least consider it.”

  “Then where did the infected cattle come from?”

  “What if that is the cover-up?” Noah dropped his voice lower. “What if someone staged the outbreak in cattle?”

  Her jaw dropped fleetingly and her eyes went wider. “You honestly think someone would…fake…a mad cow disease outbreak?”

  “How else would you conceal a cluster of human prion victims?”

  Elise’s features smoothed as she turned back to the road, her eyes focusing on the hill that her car was now climbing. “Your theory creates more questions than it answers. How do you go about staging a BSE outbreak? And why would anyone want or need to cover up a human outbreak?”

  Noah shook his head miserably. “I don’t know.”

  He turned back to the side mirror. At first, he saw nothing. But then, almost fifteen seconds after their car had plateaued, he saw the silver glint of an Audi sedan crest the same hill.

  32

  Vishnov, Antarctica. January 9

  Claude Fontaine’s fingers fumbled with the zipper of his small suitcase. The tips felt numb, as if frozen, but Fontaine had not left the warmth of his insulated aluminum hut. He studied his hands. They trembled slightly. Anxiety bubbled in his gut. I need to get off this godforsaken continent! he thought. He reached for the zipper again and managed to catch hold of the metal fastener.

  Dressed from head to toe in a snug black ski suit, Martine DeGroot closed the final snap on her own small case and deposited it on the floor. She folded her arms across her shapely chest and regarded Fontaine. “Do you need help?” she asked.

  “I can close a fucking suitcase!” he snapped.

  She flashed him a nasty smile. “Oh, you are most welcome, darling.”

  He stopped wrestling with his suitcase and looked down at his trembling fingers. Are you and that other bitch somehow responsible? he wondered. I know you’re working together. You’re going to squeeze me out of Vishnov. That is the plan, isn’t it?

  “What is wrong, Claude?”

  He glanced around the room, unable to shake
the conviction that someone was eavesdropping on them. “Where is Yulia? Is she coming with us?”

  DeGroot squinted at him.

  “What is it?” he demanded.

  “Yulia left yesterday,” she said slowly. “We saw her plane off, remember?”

  But he didn’t remember. “Of course,” he mumbled, determined not to show weakness in front of DeGroot.

  “Claude, your color is not good,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “I feel fine,” he said, conscious of DeGroot’s skeptical gaze. “I just need to get the hell out of Antarctica.” He reached for his suitcase and almost missed the handle, but his numb fingers managed to wrap around it. “When does our plane leave?”

  “Five minutes sooner than the last time you asked.”

  Fontaine shrugged, but the cramping in his stomach intensified and he fought off a cold sweat. He had no recollection of asking. What the hell is happening to me? “Martine, is everything on schedule for the shipment of the Lake?” he asked, desperate to ground his muddled thoughts.

  “Stop worrying, Claude. The first shipment will leave next week on time.”

  “And Manet?”

  DeGroot nodded.

  “We have not heard in weeks,” Fontaine said, though his memory was so clouded he had a moment of doubt.

  “There is nothing to hear,” DeGroot soothed. “Everything is on schedule.” Her sudden smile filled with invitation as she took a step closer to him.

  Fontaine stared into the glacial blue pools of DeGroot’s eyes. He recognized the spark of her arousal, and he felt suddenly turned on. Images of her handcuffed to the bed while wearing nothing but her snow boots danced in his brain. But he wasn’t sure if they were from memory or fantasy. “We still have half an hour.” She reached for the zipper and slowly slid the fastener down her chest, revealing the perfect alabaster skin beneath. As the zipper lowered inch by inch, she closed the gap between them. “Why don’t you use some of your anger constructively?” she asked throatily.

  The front of her jacket fell open. She leaned against him, pressing her firm breasts into his chest and licking his upper lip with a sweep of her tongue.