She looked at her mother and saw a tear escape her left eye, racing down her cheek toward her neck.
If this is just a flu, why are you crying?
“Why don’t you say goodbye to mommy, then go get yourself a candy bar and eat it over there, okay?” her mom said to Jeffrey, whose bored expression spread into a smile.
“Bye Mommy!” he said, hastily kissing the glass, then disappearing as he jumped off the chair.
“Bye dear!” said Tammy, knowing her precious son was probably out of earshot already. She looked at her mother. “What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?”
Her mother shook her head, closing her eyes and looking away.
“Tell me.”
Her mother looked back at her, her eyes now filled with tears, sending Tammy’s heart racing in fear. Her mother was a strong woman, the toughest she knew. She had been through the death of a husband and breast cancer. She was a survivor, and Tammy couldn’t recall the woman crying in all her years.
But today, she couldn’t hide it.
“What’s wrong?” demanded Tammy, the fear in her voice palpable, enough that she was glad Jeffrey was being spoiled with his favorite treat.
She could hear a deep breath through the speaker as her mother wiped her eyes with a tissue.
“I heard on the radio on the way here that there’s some sort of virus hitting the city.”
“Yeah, a flu. I’ll be fine in a few days.”
“Is that what they told you?”
Tammy’s eyebrows shot up at the question, then she had to admit she couldn’t remember. She rewound the events of the past few hours, but couldn’t be sure.
“I think so.”
Her mother turned away again, but spoke.
“On the radio they said people are dying.” Her voice cracked on the last word, and her shoulders heaved as a huge weight suddenly pressed on Tammy’s chest, the gravity of the situation hitting her as she noticed the panic that had been occurring in the ward had ceased.
And so had the steady tone from the heart monitor.
Did they save her, or did they turn it off because she died?
As her question echoed in her head, her heart stopped with a sudden realization as she replayed her journey to the visiting area.
She turned to mother.
“Mom?”
Her mother turned to face her, eyes red, cheeks flushed.
“Yes, Dear?”
“Did they say whether or not it was only affecting women?”
World Health Organization Conference on H5N1, Marseilles, France
“…and the results were remarkable. Our testing has shown no sign of the virus in eighty-three percent of our test subjects not receiving the placebo, and a massive reduction in the viral count in the remaining subjects. We have extended the study on these remaining subjects to see if we can further reduce their blood counts, and results are promising. In fact, if I may be so bold at a conference such as this, the results are stunning.”
Dr. Hermann Kapp paused to take a sip of water as the delegates he was addressing absorbed the bombshell he had just dropped on them. An antiviral that actually worked, worked quickly, and worked on nearly 100% of the patients. It was still probably a decade away from production, and would need to go through extensive testing, but their approach was unique, and impossible only a few years ago, the technology and knowhow simply nonexistent.
The patents had been applied for, but not yet awarded, therefore the details on how they had accomplished their miraculous feat wouldn’t be revealed today, but the generalities should be enough to have the medical community abuzz for years.
And our competitors hell-bent on stealing the secret.
He returned the glass to the podium, and noticed his smartphone sitting on the dais vibrate with a message. He chose to ignore it.
“How we were able to accomplish this I cannot get into, obviously, however I can say this. We have developed a process that allows us to target specific gene sequences, and annihilate the cells displaying these sequences. So when we have a viral outbreak, we simply—and it is by no means simple”—chuckles filled the room—“we simply need to decode the virus, program our antiviral to target the specific gene sequence, then begin mass production and distribution. We estimate our turnaround time would be less than one week from identification to start of production.”
His phone vibrated again and he took a sip of water as he swiped his finger across the display, then brought up the message.
TO ALL: Another outbreak has occurred. This one much more serious. Must discuss immediately.
Kapp’s heart leapt, but he kept his cool as he finished his drink, placing the cup down and looking back at the audience. Perhaps years from now, when historians examined the footage of this moment, they might see the slight surprise registered on his face, the change in pallor, the quickening of his breathing, but that assumed the secret got out, and assumed they had been unable to stop it.
Then again, if they were unable to stop this madness, there might very well be nobody left to care about this moment in history.
Conference Room C, Interim LSU Public Hospital, New Orleans, Louisiana
Dr. Douglas Corkery massaged his temples, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair as he listened to the hospital administrator, Dr. Fred Newton, drone on about the budget and how we risked going over it should the infection continue.
I hate bureaucrats!
He let out a loud sigh, pushing himself up straight as the room turned to the source of the exasperation.
“Do you have something to add, Doug?”
Corkery nodded as he took a deep breath, trying to control his frustration.
“Yes, I do.” He pointed at the display showing budget projections. “Why are we in here, wasting time, hearing about budgets, when we have patients down the hall dying? Forgive my language, but who gives a damn about budget numbers? Deal with those after the fact. We are doctors! It is our job to take care of these people, whatever the cost.” He pushed a stack of folders toward the center of the table. “I’ve got thirty-eight patients in isolation already, with more coming in every hour, and a second one just died, with over two dozen looking like they won’t last the day. We have an outbreak of something we haven’t seen before, and we need help!” He looked around the table in earnest, the doctors assembled nodding their heads in agreement, the bean counters avoiding his stare. His head whipped back to Newton. “When can we expect the CDC to arrive?”
Newton cleared his throat, the uncomfortable expression on his face raising alarm bells.
“Please tell me you contacted the CDC.”
All eyes were now on Newton.
“They’ll get our daily stats sent to them in the morning as per protocol.”
“What?” exclaimed Corkery. “We have people dying, of what we don’t know, and you haven’t elevated our status? Protocol clearly dictates you contact the CDC of any outbreak! What the hell were you thinking? You used to be a doctor once, remember your goddamned oath!” Corkery could feel his face burn with rage, a rage he couldn’t recall ever feeling before. This was insanity, bureaucratic insanity that would cost lives.
There was an uncomfortable pause after his outburst, which was finally ended by Newton standing up, leaning forward on his knuckles.
“I don’t need to defend myself to you,” he growled. “I’ve been a doctor for over thirty years, and you haven’t even seen your first decade. Contacting the CDC is my call, and I’ll do it when I feel it’s necessary.”
Corkery’s mind was reeling. Why won’t he contact the CDC? Is it ego? Is it that he can’t admit a mistake? That had to be it. He had known Newton to dig in his heels from time to time, even if it was obvious he was wrong, but never on a medical matter so serious. For a doctor to put ego ahead of the wellbeing of his patients was inexcusable. Career ending if word got out.
And if this outbreak was as bad as he thought it was, Newton would be answerable to authorities far
higher than anyone in this room.
And with this virus appearing to target only women, which was unheard of in his experience, they could be dealing with something far worse, which would have Newton answerable to the ultimate authority should not calling in the CDC cause this to spread even farther.
He’d be answerable to God himself.
Corkery’s pager buzzed on his hip, as did every other doctor’s in the room. He grabbed it.
Code Blue, ICU 2.
He jumped from the table and headed out the door, followed by all of the on-duty doctors, leaving Newton and his bean counters to stare after them.
Sofitel Marseille Vieux Port Hotel, Marseilles, France
Dr. Hermann Kapp closed the door, locking it securely, then did a quick survey of the room to make certain he was alone. Satisfied, he closed the drapes, turned on the lights, then powered on his laptop, facing the screen away from the window, its casing designed to block anything from being able to read the screen through the cover, and generating enough interference to prevent any other type of electronic eavesdropping.
It was the latest Dell Latitude E6540 laptop, state of the art, secure, rugged, impervious to tampering and monitoring if used properly, with a layer of customization not available to the general public.
And the amount of training he had received on its security features had seemed ridiculous at first, but with what had been happening over the past year, they had been able to keep the secret from getting out, despite operatives spread around the planet searching for the culprit. Unfortunately he must be using similar equipment, as they had no trace of him, and he seemed to be able to operate with impunity.
But eventually he would slip up, Kapp and his associates just prayed it wouldn’t be too late, the man’s demands, and demonstrations, continually more outlandish, and more severe, each time.
Kapp expertly operated the laptop and soon had a grid of faces, several still blank and logging in as he had just done. Nothing was said until the final board member had connected to the secure server.
The chairman spoke first, his image expanding to fill a quarter of the screen as his microphone activated, Hans Schreiber, Chairman displayed under the image, the BioDyne Pharma logo prominently displayed behind him. Kapp had known Chairman Schreiber for over a decade, before he had been elected Chairman, and before Kapp had even been on the board. It was Kapp’s work on the genetically targeted antiviral serum that had earned him his position. It had made Kapp a rich man, the stock options and bonuses staggering.
But this was big pharma. Mega billion dollar deals, mega billion dollar drug sales, and this particular drug would revolutionize the world—making them all ridiculously rich.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I’ll keep this brief as information is just beginning to come in. But is appears as if Dr. Urban has released another variation of the antiviral, this one on a scale far higher than we expected.”
Murmuring filled Kapp’s headset, his own mouth remaining clamped shut as his heart raced with the implications. What genetic sequence has he targeted this time? Dr. Victor Urban had been a brilliant scientist. Was still a brilliant scientist. It was his idea they had been working on for the past decade. It was he who had figured out how to design the drug to target specific genetic sequences, then destroy the cells with that sequence.
It was brilliant, outside of the box research that would change the world. And like most out of the box thinking, it was devised by a man who was borderline insane. At least it was a running joke in the lab that he was mad until that fateful day when he didn’t show up for work eighteen months ago.
It was six months later that the first terrifying message had arrived, and when they had all discovered it wasn’t just madness that consumed Dr. Urban, but greed as well.
“What kind of scale are we talking?” asked Kapp, the first to recover from the shock, but like the rest, equally scared to hear the answer.
“We don’t know yet, however he’s promised a target of half a percent.”
“Half a percent!” exclaimed one of the others.
“Where?” asked Kapp.
“We haven’t got that information yet, but based upon previous releases, I think we have to take him at his word.”
Nods filled the screen as Kapp leaned back in his chair, massaging his temples with one hand, his eyes closed. There had been two previous attacks, or “releases” of the antiviral. The first had been in a theatre in Los Angeles, which was when they had discovered he had been able to aerosolize it, an incredible achievement.
The man is a genius.
The entire theatre had been exposed to the antiviral, which when inhaled, immediately went to work, seeking out the genetic sequence it had been programmed for. In the first case, he had targeted natural redheads, which was only about two percent of the California population, and with the antiviral designed to break down within an hour when exposed to the air, and non-transmissible once inside the body, it hadn’t spread beyond those watching the 7pm showing of Red Tails.
Fortunately only three had been exposed, and all died within ten days, in separate hospitals, with symptoms suggesting pneumonia.
No one noticed the pattern except the board, and only because Urban had notified them of what to look for after they had fulfilled his first demand for payment in exchange for information. It was only one million dollars, paid to a bank in the Cayman Islands, and came with the promise he would do nothing for six months. Then six months had passed, and another message.
LaGuardia Airport in New York City. This time he targeted Marfan Syndrome, a rare disorder of the connective tissues that affects about one in five thousand people. A few had died, spread across the world, with no one except BioDyne Pharma noticing. But it had been the largest scale attack yet.
And there had been a mutation.
The virus had been transmitted beyond the initial carriers.
This wasn’t supposed to happen, and BioDyne’s scientists theorized—since they didn’t have a sample—it was due to the alterations made in aerosolizing the compound. It had mutated and found a way to transmit beyond the host, which was terrifying. The antiviral was specifically designed to not be transmittable. After all, a cure that could spread would reduce their profits.
And this was what was driving the panic now. The authorities hadn’t been called in, but millions were being spent to try and track Urban down. All in the name of profits. If it were revealed a madman was loose with a BioDyne drug capable of killing anyone with a specific gene sequence, their stock would plummet, and the company would probably never survive.
And it had to, for it was the only hope to stop Urban, especially after this apparent mutation.
The next six months of peace were bought with ten million dollars of blood money, and that six months ended ten days ago.
“Has there been any word from the CDC?” asked Harris, one of the oldest members of the board.
“Nothing. Which is odd if Urban is telling us the truth.”
“Unless it’s mutated again and taking longer than usual,” replied Harris.
“Let’s hope that hasn’t happened.” Chairman Schreiber sighed, taking off his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know what to do, people. This time he wants one hundred million. We can afford it of course, but next time can we expect one billion? And where does paying him get us? It buys us six more months to do what? We’ve had no success in finding him. We’re no closer today than we were a year ago when this started.”
Hyatt, their most senior researcher, cleared his throat and his image expanded on the screen. He scratched his nose, then leaned into the camera, the effect disconcerting, his geek visage, pimply and unkempt, taking on a fishbowl appearance that belied his genius. He had been Urban’s protégé, and would probably equal or surpass him someday.
When Hyatt spoke, people listened.
“I wouldn’t quite say that.”
Isolation Ward, Interim LSU Public Hospital, New Orleans, Lo
uisiana
Dr. Douglas Corkery drew the sheet up over yet another woman, dead in her prime as several of his colleagues did the same with their patients. They were at seven dead now, with no signs of recovery in anyone. This was getting ridiculous. Scratch that. It is ridiculous! People were dying. More were arriving every hour, and the idiot in charge was too pigheaded to ask for help, more concerned about being right, and being in line with his budget expectations.
He fished his cellphone out of his pocket and dialed a colleague at Tulane Hospital. It rang three times before his squash buddy and med school pal Jack Kilborn answered.
“Hey Doug, pretty busy right now.”
“No problem, Jack. It’ll only take a minute. Have you guys got a major viral outbreak there?”
There was a pause. “Well, I wouldn’t call it major, only a few people—” Kilborn paused. “Hey, how’d you know about that?”
“We’ve got a major outbreak here. Over fifty people, seven dead already.”
“Jesus!”
“Please tell me you’ve sent this into the CDC.”
“No, it’s only a few people. It will go in with tomorrow’s numbers. Why? Surely you guys already have!”
“Our moron acting administrator Dr. Fred Newton won’t contact them.”
“That guy’s a stubborn asshole!”
“No shit.” Corkery lowered his voice. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you get your guys to send in the numbers, and make a mention that you’ve heard LSU is far worse?”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back in a few.”
Corkery returned the phone to his pocket then continued his rounds, praying the CDC would be notified shortly. If they weren’t, he vowed to call them himself within an hour.
Containment Failure (A Special Agent Dylan Kane Thriller, Book #2) Page 3