In seconds he was gulping the coffee while simultaneously readying a pad and pen for notes. “Go on, Julio.”
In his stilted English, Cardenez began spelling out the problem. “A few months ago, one of our archaeologists recommended I approve an expedition from the archaeology department of the University of Texas to a dig in a remote area west and south of Mexico City. After the usual bureaucratic delays, the expedition finally embarked about three weeks ago.”
Mason sighed, hoping he wasn’t being called in to deal with an outbreak of food or water poisoning so common in tourists who traveled to the interior of Mexico. “Excuse me, Julio, but just how does this involve the CDC?”
Cardenez bristled. Who does this Americano think he is to interrupt a man of my importance? he thought. “I would think, Dr. Williams,” Cardenez spit out with more than a little sarcasm, “that your CDC would appreciate being consulted when over thirty American students and professors have contracted some mysterious illness, which, if the reports I just received are to be believed, has killed them all in a matter of days.”
“What?” Mason gasped, almost choking on his coffee. “What kind of illness . . . ?”
“Let me save us both some time, Dr. Williams,” Cardenez said. “Here are the names and phone numbers of the two people who reported this incident to me just moments ago. Perhaps you should get the details of the illness and the location of the outbreak from them.”
Mason belatedly realized his mistake in antagonizing this man. Mexico and its health officials were sensitive to the point of paranoia about having to ask for American assistance in the best of circumstances, and this had all the earmarks of being a real clusterfuck, he thought, wondering just what the Americans had gotten themselves into. “I apologize if I seemed rude, Dr. Cardenez,” Mason said, laying it on thick. “As I said, I’ve just woken up and I’m not at my best until after at least two cups of coffee.”
Cardenez’s voice softened a bit. “I understand, Doctor.” He recited Dr. Matos’s and Dr. Sullivan’s names and phone numbers and then added, “While you are consulting with them, I will begin to make arrangements for you and your team to obtain the necessary permits and transportation to proceed to the area in question as soon as you are ready.”
“Thank you again, Dr. Cardenez. I’ll call them both right away.”
Mason stuck another K-cup in the coffee machine and dialed Eduardo Matos’s phone number while his cup filled with the aromatic brew.
After Matos told him briefly what Lauren Sullivan had said and then described the location of the dig as being in a dense jungle setting near an ancient village named Tlateloco, Mason began to question him more closely about what he’d been told.
“They were bleeding from the nose and mouth?” he asked, all trace of sleepiness gone from his voice.
“Hemorrhaging, according to what was reported to me by the archaeologist’s associate who talked to him on the site by telephone as he was dying.”
Dr. Matos hesitated, “Dr. Williams, I am not a man who is easily alarmed, but according to what I’ve just been told by Dr. Sullivan, there may be as many as thirty deaths in Tlateloco, all with a very sudden onset of fever, vomiting, and hemorrhage. They are all American archaeologists or students working at an Aztec village in the jungle, a new discovery thought to be the tomb of Montezuma.”
Matos hesitated, cleared his throat, and said, “Lauren Sullivan said that Dr. Charles Adams, the leader of the dig, called her as he was dying and asked her to make the call to me and to tell me of the tragedy.”
“Why did he ask her to call you, instead of medical personnel?”
“I believe he told her the situation was too dire and it was too late for medical intervention . . . in fact, he made it rather clear that he did not want anyone else to come to the site but that he thought that it should simply be burned to prevent further spread of the illness and further loss of life.”
Matos mentally crossed his fingers, hoping this American doctor would follow Adams’s advice and he would not have to risk his life flying into the hellhole Tlateloco had become.
Mason said, “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Dr. Matos. The site will have to be visited, any possible survivors found and treated, and the illness identified before we can even think of destroying the site.”
Damn, Matos thought. It looked like he was going after all. Well, he’d better do as Cardenez said and at least get the Sullivan girl to join him on the trip.
“Perhaps, if it is possible, Dr. Sullivan would be willing to join us—to direct us to the site, and if necessary, identify the bodies. I’m told she knows the area well from previous digs nearby.”
“What do you mean ‘us,’ Dr. Matos? Are you telling me you intend to travel to the site with my team?”
“I’m afraid so, Dr. Williams. Dr. Cardenez says that the Mexican government must be represented and that as an archaeologist I am to be that representative. I promise you I will try my best not to get underfoot or to hinder your examination in any fashion.”
Mason sighed. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy to get his team into the Mexican interior and clean up this mess, even without having to babysit amateurs.
“Is this Lauren Sullivan a medical doctor?” he asked, fearing he already knew the answer.
“Uh, no, I do not believe so. As she is an associate of the archaeologist on-site, I suspect she is also an archaeologist.”
“Well, since the site is an archaeological dig, you and she might be of some use to us if we have to do any digging.”
“Well, since I am head of our Institute of Archaeology and am representing the Mexican government, it will be up to me to see to the proper disposition of any historical relics that may be discovered.”
“I don’t know anything about Central American history or historical relics, so it probably makes sense for both you and Sullivan to come along,” Mason said, draining the last of his coffee. “If you believe the report is accurate, I can have my team in Mexico City by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll need a pilot who knows the terrain and a helicopter, one big enough to bring in our equipment.” He stifled a yawn. “The symptoms sound like hemorrhagic shock to me, but it’s anybody’s guess as to the cause. I’ll have a mobile lab on standby that can also be transported in by helicopter, just in case this is real.”
“Well,” Matos said, “Dr. Sullivan certainly thought it was real since she said Dr. Adams died while talking to her on the phone.” He hesitated and then continued, “If it is all right with Dr. Cardenez, I believe I can have one of our army’s helicopters waiting for you at Mexico City International Airport with an experienced pilot by tomorrow afternoon.”
Mason glanced at the clock on his kitchen wall. “We’ll be in Mexico City sometime after noon to meet you. I’ll start making phone calls to my team now. But Dr. Matos, we need to both hope this is not hemorrhagic fever, ’cause anything that causes that is not something we want to be dealing with.”
“I understand, Dr. Williams, and I share your trepidation. Even though I am not a medical doctor, I have heard of hemorrhagic fever and like you I want nothing to do with it.”
“Uh, Dr. Matos, one more thing, if you don’t mind.”
“Anything, Dr. Williams.”
“I’m going to be extremely busy the rest of the night setting up this trip for my team, so would you mind calling Dr. Sullivan for me? Since you’ve already talked to her and sort of know her, I feel it’d be best if you relay our schedule to Dr. Sullivan so she can join us for the trip . . . if she’s willing.”
Matos chuckled. “So, you don’t want to get hung up talking to a hysterical female, huh?”
Mason laughed. Matos was more intelligent than most of the Mexican bureaucrats he usually dealt with. “You got it, Doctor.”
He hung up and pushed the first button on his autodialer, talking into a speakerphone as he dressed hurriedly, awakening a night supervisor at CDC in order to prepare equipment packs for his team of specialists. As head of th
e CDC’s Special Pathogens Group, nicknamed “Wildfire Team,” he was about to launch what was called a Wildfire Emergency Intervention. In spite of the hour and the gravity of the situation, he felt his pulse begin to race—this was what he lived for.
Austin
Lauren was still sitting on the edge of her bed, her body numb and her mind racing with thoughts of Charles Adams and what her life and career would be like without him in it to give her support and advice as he’d been doing as long as she could remember.
She jumped as the phone rang and fumbled with the receiver for a moment before lifting it to her ear.
“Hello,” she said, her voice rough with emotion.
“Hello, Lauren. This is Eduardo Matos.”
“Yes, Eduardo.”
“I’ve just finished speaking with Dr. Julio Cardenez, the head of our public health service.”
“Is he going to send a team of doctors down to the dig site?”
“He is going to do better than that,” Matos replied, forcing his voice to seem hopeful. “He has a close relationship with your American CDC.”
“CDC? I’ve heard of them but I’m afraid I don’t know exactly who they are or what they do.”
“CDC stands for Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. They are based in Atlanta, Georgia, I believe, and they have an infectious disease group that can be dispatched anywhere in the world very rapidly to identify and control epidemics. They were here a few years ago after the earthquake in Mexico City killed thousands of our people. Dr. Cardenez was quoted as giving them credit for stopping the outbreak of cholera after the city’s water system was contaminated.” This was a bit of a stretch as Matos knew Cardenez had himself taken most of the credit.
“Do you think we might be able to get permission for the CDC to fly to Tlateloco in time for them to help?”
“That is what Dr. Cardenez is working on right now. And I’ve already talked to a doctor at the CDC and he has agreed to intervene. They have an additional interest since the victims are all Americans.”
“So, this is really going to happen?”
“Lauren, the doctor in charge of the infectious disease team at the CDC is Mason Williams. I am told he is relatively young; however, he is head of the international team that investigates potential outbreaks in foreign countries. Dr. Cardenez said that since Dr. Williams agreed to come, he would clear the red tape and make it happen.”
“That’s good news.”
Matos cleared his throat. “Lauren, I want more than that. I am directly responsible for Charles being at that dig, and I feel a responsibility for what has happened. In addition, as Director of INAH, our National Institute of Anthropology, it is my responsibility to control activity at any archaeological dig. Therefore, I intend to travel with the CDC to the site, and I would like for you to come, too.”
“But . . .”
“We need you, Lauren, and more than that, Charles and the other students need you. The CDC doctors are specialists in infectious disease, but they know nothing of archaeology or dig sites. They will need our expertise in case they have to excavate at the site, or precious relics may be lost.” He hesitated, “And there is the problem of identification of the . . . uh . . . bodies.”
Lauren stifled a sob at the thought of what she would be asked to do . . . to identify the bodies of students she’d taught and become friends with was almost too much to contemplate.
She took a deep breath. “All right, Eduardo. I’ll get an early morning flight to Atlanta and join the CDC on the flight to Mexico City. I have some questions I want to ask Dr. Williams and the flight will give me time to do that.”
“Good. Pack light and bring some nausea pills and perhaps some Cipro to prevent food poisoning. We will have to change planes to a helicopter at the Mexico City airport. Tlateloco is inaccessible by airplane, and the helicopter ride over the mountains can get quite rough.”
Lauren agreed and hung up. She sat on the edge of her bed, her mind racing, trying to think of all the things she had to do to get ready for an international trip. She dialed Continental Airlines to arrange for the earliest possible morning flight to Atlanta. She got a flight leaving at six a.m.
She called her teaching assistant and after apologizing for calling so late, told her what was going on. The young girl was devastated at the terrible news but agreed to cover Lauren’s classes and to explain to the dean why she was leaving for the next couple of weeks. For a time she merely sat there staring at the floor of her apartment, feeling helpless, until she finally forced herself to get up. She had a lot to do before her plane left for Atlanta at six a.m. She took a suitcase from her closet and began filling it with clothes, letting the activity take her mind off Mexico and the horrors there.
After she snapped the suitcase shut, she went to her briefcase and thumbed through a stack of papers inside until she found copies of a translation of Díaz’s journal that arrived in yesterday’s mail.
Too keyed up to go back to sleep, she propped a couple of pillows against the headboard, put on her reading glasses, and turned to the first page. Perhaps the journal would offer some clues to the fate that had befallen her friends and colleagues at the Tlateloco dig. At the very least, she reasoned, it might help keep her mind off the agony she’d heard in Charles Adams’s voice.
Though her Spanish was tolerable, she was grateful for the translation Charlie had included with the copies of the original document. In spite of her vow to try to put Charlie’s phone call out of her thoughts, she found it hard to concentrate. Her mind filled with images of all the kindnesses and special moments she and Charlie had shared in her years at the university.
Finally, she pushed all maudlin thoughts aside, vowing to grieve for her mentor later. Now it was more important for her to read and try to understand as much as she could about the mysterious illness Díaz had named the Black Plague. As she read, she wondered if this Dr. Williams and his team of experts would be able to solve a mystery that had its beginnings almost five hundred years ago. She hoped so, for she simply had to know what happened to Charlie and all the others.
Two hours later, physically and emotionally spent, she set her alarm, turned off her light, and drifted into a fitful sleep, tormented by dreams of dying men and animals in the jungle. In the morning she would be on her way to Atlanta to join a doctor by the name of Williams and his team on a journey into the face of a death so horrible that it could barely be contemplated.
Chapter 3
Atlanta
Mason Williams unlocked and entered the conference room at CDC headquarters his Wildfire Team used whenever they had a thorny problem to discuss. Stifling a yawn, he threw his “go-bag” packed with the clothes and toiletries he’d need for two weeks in the jungle in the corner and proceeded immediately to the rear table holding the most important equipment in the room, a coffeepot.
Minutes later he was sitting at the head of the long burl wood conference table and drinking the wake-up juice while he went over the notes he’d taken while on the phone with Dr. Matos. From the doctor’s description of the sickness, he felt sure it was some form of hemorrhagic fever, but he was damned if he could think of anything endemic to Mexico that would produce those symptoms.
He finished his coffee and was just getting up to pour another cup when he saw two of his team members entering the door.
Lionel Johnson and Shirley Cole walked in side by side, looking like Mutt and Jeff as they tossed their go-bags into the corner with Mason’s.
Lionel Johnson, MD, PhD, was six feet four inches in height, tipped the scales at 250 pounds, and was an easygoing African American who was the world’s foremost authority on fungi and mycobacteria. Although he’d gone to Duke on a football scholarship and had been a fierce competitor on the field, he was very shy and gentle in everyday life and spoke so softly that he often had to repeat himself in meetings. His features were, like the rest of him, large and coarse. His most prominent attribute were his ears, which stuck out like Clark Ga
ble’s and were often the subject of fond teasing by the other members of the team.
In contrast, Shirley Cole had a PhD in Microbiology, was only five feet two inches tall, and was almost that wide. At forty-four years of age she was the oldest member of the team and was slightly matronly. She had been extensively involved in army biological and chemical warfare secret laboratories prior to coming to work at the CDC. She was the unofficial den mother of the team and spent most of her off time baking cookies and muffins, which she brought to all of their meetings. Usually calm and centered, she could still get quite testy if her conclusions were questioned but then usually felt guilty and baked even more goodies to make up for her temper.
They smiled when they saw Mason standing next to the coffee machine as Shirley approached, handing him a platter of banana nut muffins. “Try these, boss,” she said. “They’ll get that bleary look out of your eyes.”
Lionel nodded, smiling around the crumbs on his lips. “Yep,” he mumbled. “Mighty tasty all right.”
Mason grabbed one and motioned to the coffee machine. “Better drink up, guys. I have a feeling we’re gonna need all the coffee we can get to handle this case.”
Before he could continue, the other three members of the team came hurrying through the door, all jabbering about what could be so important to yank them out of their beds at this ungodly hour.
Mason stepped back so Sam Jakes, Suzanne Elliot, and Joel Schumacher could gather around the coffeepot and get their fair share of caffeine and muffins. As he sipped his coffee and watched them mingle and tease back and forth he thought back to the amazing changes each of them had undergone since joining the Wildfire Team. Once highly independent loners who were all at the pinnacle of their fields, they were now members of a team that required the most intimate cooperation imaginable . . . not only their very lives depended on it, but the lives of thousands of others, also.
It had been just a few years before when he had been tasked with finding and recruiting the best medical and scientific talent available. He was told to form a rapid response group that could be ready to mobilize at a moment’s notice to travel anywhere in the world to attack and defeat any disease threats to the country and the world.
The Anthrax Protocol Page 3