The Patron Saint of Plagues
Page 5
Domenica stepped back from the line, too, turning to disappear into the little chapel, slipping farther from his grasp with each step.
You. You.
SUNDAY, MAY 15. 7:30 P.M.
“TWO CODE REDS in one day.” Stark had just returned from dinner with the day crew after their shift. For dessert, they had delicious bananas, as many as they could eat—a rare treat that had arrived on a return truck from Chicago. “The hell happening now, Mum?”
The chatter of workers coming in from the fields floated up to Stark. Cool dusk had chilled the house, and after he slipped on his goggles, he shut his window against the night air, jerking his hand away before the sash could slam shut on his fingers.
“Dr. Stark,” Queen Mum said, as the telephone icon for an incoming call seemed to stick against the windowpane where his vision had focused, “you have a message from Jerusalem.”
Stark watched as his grandfather stopped in the yard below to gather a gaggle of tillers, shooing them into their shed for the night. Grandfather didn’t look like a man whose life work was about to be devoured by gold mold. Perhaps he still hadn’t looked at the field press. Stark turned away from the window, hoping that this was the Palestinian-Jewish Federation calling to pledge tetravalent vaccine for Mexico. “Hello, who calls, please?” he said in his passable Arabic-Yiddish argot. It was about all he knew beyond Do you have a fever? and Urinate into this.
An international AI spoke smooth English in his earplug. “I am routing an urgent call from the Pan-Islam Virological Institute in Islamabad.”
Stark acknowledged the new link with a harrumph. PIVI hardly ever called the CDC’s Central Command. In fact, some of its haughtier members felt superior to the Center for Disease Control, despite the fact that Stark often worked outbreaks with their best, Dr. Isabel Khushub. Stark hoped it was Isabel, calling him under the guise of professional consultation.
But a moment later, a pleasant, male voice said, “Buenas tardes, Dr. Stark. ¿Puede oirme?”
Stark had braced himself for Urdu, but the man was speaking Spanish. “Sí, estoy aquí. ¿Quién es, por favor?”
“Muy bien,” said the man. “An artificial intelligence in Pakistan is to interpret and revive my voice for you at English.”
“You’re being translated back into Spanish, actually. And badly.”
“Like you to me at the same once! But enough laughing. Dr. Stark, I do call to you from San Antonio, Mexican Texas.”
“MexTexas? You’re not my department and haven’t been for eight years,” Stark said. A San Antonio doctor should have been contacting Mexico’s Central Command, not America’s Centers for Disease Control—the city and the western half of Texas were under Mexican control now. “Mexico’s National Institute is fully capable of—”
“I am not requiring our NIH, sir,” said the man. “I am calling for you, Dr. Henry David Stark. You are sentient with the tragic event of dengue in Ascensión, I comply?”
Stark aimed his goggles at the dengue mortality statistics, an icon that he kept on his wrist like a watch. Ten dead at 7:43 P.M. Fifty-three confirmed cases. Bad numbers, especially for a young dengue outbreak, but still manageable. Mexico was obviously nervous about something other than mortality if they were calling a doctor behind enemy lines. “Who is this, please?”
“My identity is insubstantial,” said the man, “but you may call me El Mono.”
The Monkey? Here we go. It cloak-and-dagger time now, Stark thought. “Why are you calling, El Mono?”
The artificial intelligence rendered El Mono’s voice in Spanish so succinct it sounded like either an act of extreme politeness or condescension. Whatever the case, it seemed to help the translation. “I have been allowed to invite you to the San Felipe de Mexico Federal Building here in San Antonio,” El Mono said. “As you may have already calculated, this disease is not behaving like typical dengue fever. The Holy Renaissance requires your expertise. We would be distinguished if you came to Ascensión and consulted with our specialists.”
“‘We’? Who specifically authorized you to invite me?” Stark asked half-rhetorically eager for an overdue conversation with Diego Alejandro.
“President Orbegón’s most trusted advisor authorized me,” said El Mono. “Chief of State Cazador.”
Everyone in America knew Roberto Cazador, a name synonymous with the brutal bite that the Holy Renaissance had put on its opposition when Orbegón’s religious movement-cum-political party, the Holy Renaissance, came to power eighteen years ago. Several thousand Mexicans had been “disappeared” in that power grab, and Chinese officials were constantly protesting the Holy Renaissance on behalf of the Desaperecidos—the disappeared. But perhaps even more ominous than those who vanished were the Aperecidos: individuals whose identities could not be traced to birth records or the federal school system—who simply “appeared” in new houses, new jobs, driving new cars. Los Aperecidos were well-mannered, devout, hardworking, and their coworkers and neighbors were expected to simply accept them into their communities and places of work without questioning who they were or where they’d come from. Roberto Cazador was credited with creating this new class of citizen in his spas dedicated to “faith realignment.”
“Cazador certainly has the authority, I suppose. But let me ask you this. Why come to the enemy?” Stark said. “PIVI’s pathologists are every bit as good as the CDC’s. Isabel Khushub is probably the best pathologist in the world, and she’s originally from Xalapa, Mexico.”
“Dr. Khushub is on her passage from Islamabad as we verbalize. But, to clarify, we did not come to the foe,” said El Mono, “we came to you, Dr. Stark.”
The Holy Renaissance was bringing together the epidemiologist and pathologist who’d worked the famous Cairo outbreak. That much made sense. Isabel had written about that outbreak in her book, The Mummy’s Curse, so obviously, Orbegón and Cazador wanted a high-profile team to calm the citizenry.
“Will you help us?”
On his wrist, the mortality icon flashed fourteen. “Of course I’ll help.”
“Good,” said El Mono. “Your account has been credited for a military cargo flight from Minneapolis to Houston in AmTexas. The flight departs at 6:30 A.M. tomorrow morning.”
Stark glanced around his room in a moment of panic, but realized that all of his clothes were folded in open suitcases on top of his dresser. Though he hadn’t actually entered a hot zone in more than two years, the need to leave at a moment’s notice was an ingrained habit from his days in the Special Pathogens Unit—he’d never completely unpacked upon returning to the quop. “I’ll make that flight.”
“You will be met at Houston International by my attachés and driven across the border to San Antonio. You must be here by 3:00 P.M. tomorrow. If this intercourse between you and me becomes public, we will murder your flight, and the concord will be discontinued.”
“Um. I understand.”
“Do you have initial suggestions for us before arriving in Ascensión?”
“I’m glad you asked. First of all, I want total access to all Mexican medical information from now on. Can you arrange that?”
“Visibly! We’ll establish a live link between our National Institute and your Central Command. The satellite embargo ends for you now.”
“That’s good,” said Stark, “but I also need Mexico’s sealed records on the beginning of the outbreak. In order to help you, I’ll need access to Zapata’s records from before noon this morning.”
The silence from the other end of the line lasted so long Stark was about to ask Mum if the line had been severed, when El Mono said, “How do you know about the classification of those files, Dr. Stark?”
“I tried to access them and was denied.”
“Hmm. You’ve taken an interest in this case already?”
Stark put on his irritated voice, hoping it would mask his fear for Pedro Muñoz’s safety. “The whole world has taken an interest, Mr. Monkey. The whole world is watching Ascensión.”
“Of course,” Stark said sarcastically, thoroughly disgusted with Diego Alejandro. “Be sure that I do. Moving on, I’ve rallied”—Stark checked the WHO icon on his other wrist, where Queen Mum kept a running tally of the doses they’d gathered from around the planet—”two hundred thousand doses of tetravalent vaccine, in addition to whatever Mexico has. But we need your country’s omnivalent vaccines. How many doses has Mexico stockpiled?”
“Of omnivalents?” El Mono said. “Hardly any. Minister Alejandro has been hesitant to order their clonufacturing.”
That made sense. Omnivalent vaccinia could modify its structure to attach itself to, theoretically, any virus’s epitope, but it hadn’t been thoroughly tested yet. An hour ago, Stark would have advised against what he was about to say. “I recommend getting all of your country’s plants ready to produce several hundred thousand doses.”
“Done. The Minister just gave the order and fifteen plants have started production,” said El Mono. “The first round of fifty thousand should be ready in three days.”
“Are you joking?”
“Welcome to Mexico, Dr. Stark,” said El Mono. “Whole industries appear at the snapping fingers in Mexico.”
Further enchantments from the pilone network. Stark’s mind whirled, contemplating such power. The request had blinked from El Mono’s wetwared synapses to Diego Alejandro’s to the captains of Mexico’s vaccine industry. Perhaps production had already been put in place and were poised, ready for clearance. Nonetheless, three days? When Stark entered the CDC, it took two months to complete production on a new vaccine. In the last century, years.
“Now the last I heard, Dr. Miguel Cristóbal was about to deliver his findings to the Minister of Health. I want that report, and all professional reactions to his work.” Stark decided to ask for everything and see how far El Mono would let him go. “And I want the most recent genomic analysis of the virus, too, and all guesses on its pathology.”
“Dr. Khushub will be examining pathology in flight from Pakistan. You’ll have her report as soon as it’s available.”
“Good. Tell Bela—remind Dr. Khushub that all my epidemiological work is on hold until she tells me how this virus spreads. She knows that, and she’ll swear at you for telling her what she already knows, but tell her anyway. What state is the epidemiological data in, anyway?”
“Field teams are still combing through the centro histórico in downtown Ascensión, where all the victims lived. We should have something for you tonight.”
In that case, Stark couldn’t do anything more. “Good. One last thing.” Through the icons floating in his room, Stark located his library of discs and began thinking of titles he would like to take with him. He wanted to pack. He wanted to call down to his grandfather in the yard and arrange for a ride to Minneapolis. “Tell Minister Alejandro that I must speak with him immediately.”
“I’ll tell him.” Then, the timbre of El Mono’s voice dropped, and, he sounded, not like a secret agent, but a fan seeking an autograph. “I wanted very painfully to tell you that, as a physician myself, I am honored to work in even a small capacity with the Patron Saint of Plagues. Dr. Khushub called you that in her book, I believe?”
The change in this conversation’s tone was so abrupt Stark didn’t know if El Mono was being serious or sarcastic. “Yes. Um. Why, thank you. That’s—thank you.”
“Your handling of the smallpox outbreak remotely from the United States was inspired, sir,” El Mono said. “I hope you’re what you seem to be.”
Then the line went dead and Stark was left contemplating that strange sign-off. Another crappy translation, Stark thought. Somewhere in the house, there was a crash of glass followed by ringing laughter. Systematically, he began clearing evidence of his conversation with El Mono from Queen Mum’s interface, deleting call icons and copies of transcripts. He wondered what he would say to his old classmate when he finally met Diego face-to-face in Mexico. Diego Alejandro was no longer the friend he had once been, and the charges Stark planned to bring against Diego and his government would speak for themselves. Diego was now so much of a deterrent he was himself practically an aspect of the virus’s pathology.
On the other hand, there was someone who might have something to say about Diego’s “quarantine of information.”
“Look, Mum, get me Joaquin Delgado’s personal line,” Stark said, standing, opening a lugall, and thumbing through his library.
“Connecting,” said Mum.
Joaquin was the teacher who had encouraged Stark to enter epidemiology. A seething, arrogant talent in his youth, Joaquin had created the first nanophages, the half machine, half virus that had keyed on viruses like hunter-seeker missiles in a population’s bloodstream or in the air over the city, and which forever altered the course of handling viral outbreaks. Now, late in life, the flaring burn of Joaquin’s intellect was mellowing into coals, a quiet kingliness, with his own business and consulting firm. It suited him, and most of Europe wanted him, so he lived well in London. Stark was flattered that Joaquin had become his confidant over the years, so much so that when Stark was a CDC agent for Special Pathogens, it was his tradition to call Joaquin before jetting off to an outbreak, and several times, he had even managed to convince Joaquin to join him. Calling him now, he of course wanted to tell Joaquin about Diego, but he also simply wanted to swing in the hammock of that great mind before entering the battle.
When he answered his personal, Joaquin greeted Stark warmly. “¿Qué va, compañero?”
“Maestro,” Stark said.
“Pues, I wondered when you would call me. Hold on. Something tells me this is going to be a long conversation. I want to find a place to sit and talk.”
Joaquin’s voice sounded strained to Stark. In English, he asked, “Everything all right?”
Joaquin sighed and Stark imagined the Spaniard wiping a hand across his brow. “Ai. I’m in Austria looking into a contract with Privatklinik Beobachtungen.” A restaurant’s clink and hum could be heard in the background.
Joaquin’s business specialized in improving epidemiological services in private hospitals throughout Europe. Like watching a Thoroughbred pull a plow, in Stark’s opinion, but they’d had that argument before. “A pretty good clinic, ain’t it?”
“It’s a death trap. My advice to you? Don’t get sick in Vienna. Bueno. I’ve found a place to sit and talk.” Joaquin sighed as he sat, and went visual. Stark didn’t like how old he looked. Like Diego Alejandro, Joaquin was a handsome man who seemed built for old age, looking the part of distinguished gentleman. Unlike Diego, whose stately gray hair at forty-one made him look much older, Joaquin had always looked considerably younger than his years. But at fifty, Joaquin now looked it. “You’re using your CDC interface,” he said. “The connection is always better than your farm’s cheap lines. So. Let’s begin. You are calling about Mexico? Dengue, I take it?”
Joaquin was up to speed. “That right. What the last you heard?”
“Just what I saw on the mednets this morning. Eight dead, I saw.” A waiter tried to get his attention, and Joaquin snapped at the person to be quiet and go away. “Sorry. That’s highly unusual for dengue. Is the Instituto Nacional certain of that identification?”
“They ain’t certain of nothing,” said Stark. “Mortality at fourteen now, by the way. Not eight.”
“Ai, dios.”
“It gets worse.”
“Worse? Worse than fourteen dead in a dengue outbreak?”
“Diego Alejandro has turned politico. His Ministry of Health classified the outbreak.”
Joaquin’s face fell—almost literally. The skin under his eyes seemed to sag slightly, and his cheeks went gaunt as his mouth drooped open. “Who could have foreseen this?” Joaquin said
finally. “Diego classified the outbreak?”
Diego Alejandro and Henry David Stark had been Joaquin’s favorite and most successful students. If it had shocked and hurt Stark to learn of Diego’s interference, then it was goring Joaquin’s heart. Stark knew Joaquin well enough not to pull punches though. His teacher would rip into him if he sensed that Stark was withholding information. “Minister Alejandro has blocked the earliest data on the outbreak. They want me to consult with them.”
“How do you know it was Diego who classified it?” Joaquin said, voice hardening. “Maybe the order came from higher up. Maybe servicio sagrado forced his hand.”
“I saw his signature.”
“But how much can one man in that bloody dictatorship do to—”
“I saw his signature, Joaquin.”
Stark watched Joaquin, gave him the minutes he needed to digest this. He could see a bucket of ice chilling a bottle of champagne in the restaurant behind him. Finally, Joaquin’s voice crushed flat, he said, “Quite right. Quite right, Henry David. This—this is such an insult. I don’t mean that egotistically. I mean it medically. A blow to my very body.”
“I know.”
“Ai, pues. He was always one of us. I never imagined either of you becoming a foe like this.”
That was an old idiom for Joaquin, his use of the word “foe”: an antagonist of public health.
Despite the heavy moment, Stark was growing impatient. He still needed to find his grandfather and see if any farm trucks were departing with loads for Minneapolis tonight. “I glad you reading the mednets, Joaquin.”
“Always. Every day.”
“Give me your take, por favor?”
“It’s an emergent, obviously.”
“Does it sound familiar, Joaquin? Have you come across anything like it recently?”
Joaquin’s brief pause was promising. Stark knew every gesture, every facial expression of Joaquin’s, and right now his old teacher was putting a hand over his mouth, and his intense gaze lifted as if watching a balloon float upward—which meant a brainstorm.