Biocide.com

by Ann Massey

  As for Annie, my stoic little sister took to school like a duck to water. I admired how rapidly she’d adjusted. I’d put up an awful fuss when my parents wanted to send me to boarding school. Looking back I was such a drip! Having studied psychology as part of my teaching studies, I’d never use the term in relation to a student, but it perfectly fitted my angst-ridden teenage self.

  Shorter at sixteen than my twelve-year old sister, Fanny and undeveloped when she was already flaunting a pair of perky breasts, I was the only one of my siblings to inherit my father’s red hair.

  In those soppy romances to which I was addicted back then, red-headed heroines invariably had a tangled mass of fiery, flame-coloured locks and creamy skin. Not me! My ginger frizz was accompanied by pale and freckle-prone skin. But worst of all, I suffer from heterochromia iridium. It’s a rare condition and simply means that each of my eyes is a different colour. It never bothered me when I was a kid. I was home-schooled and had never been teased about my looks. But when one of Doug’s delinquent station-hands called me a freak, it hit me — I wasn’t just plain, I was a grotesque monster.

  I’m ashamed to say I acted the part. Mother complained that she didn’t know what had got into me. At the time, she was pregnant with Annie and with three home-schooled daughters, a chauvinistic husband and a large household to run; she was rushed off her feet. When she got a spare hour her head was stuck in a book — invariably a Jane Austen. Engrossed in the lives of exquisite eighteenth century heroines, she didn’t notice how deeply troubled I was. To rub salt into my wounded self-esteem, she’d named me Elizabeth after Austen’s beautiful heroine — Elizabeth Bennet in Pride and Prejudice.

  These days, though I’m no knockout in the looks department, I don’t groan when I look in the mirror—thanks largely to Mo. Brought up with fashion conscious sisters, he’d clued me up about ways to improve my appearance, starting with coloured contact lenses.

  Funny I should think of Mo. At the time, my feelings for him were so intense. On the day I left to start boarding school, I told him I’d love him forever. But like a fire deprived of oxygen our romance smoldered feebly and finally the fire went out. And so did I!

  Thanks to bleach, hair straightener and coloured contact lenses I got asked out a lot. But none of the boys I dated made my heart sing. After Mo, I thought none would again.

  Snap! I winced and rubbed my wrist. The skin was red raw ... I was snapping the wrist band too often. I wore it to remind me to think of something else — anything other than Karim. Such as food.

  I got the makings for a smoothie out of the fridge. Zapped spinach, banana and pineapple in my Nutribullet, and checked out the emails on the shiny new laptop supplied to teachers by the Education Department. There was only one message in my inbox — a work request from the parent of a student convalescing after a lengthy period in hospital. It took but moments to attach assignment outlines and worksheets. Then I wrote a letter to the sick girl. I tried to make it chatty, but as it was the start of the school year there wasn’t much going on. When I was satisfied, I clicked send.

  The walk to St. Agnes’s takes all of five minutes and it was only a quarter to seven. I decided it was too early to leave, even for an eager-beaver like me. I rinsed my glass under the tap and wandered through to the spare bedroom I’d set up as a study. I’d bought a secondhand blonde wood desk with a return, and two drawers. The top was standard. The bottom, three times as deep, was fitted with filing cabinet runners. It was ideal to keep my paper overload in some semblance of order. But though the desk that measured 220 x 90 centimeters was large, it was crammed with the paraphernalia that came with my outdated PC: monitor, keyboard, tower, speakers, modem and printer. I had trouble finding space for my teaching requisites: binder files, one for each of my five classes, two trays one for marking and the other for worksheets. And then there was the laptop supplied to me by the Education Department.

  There was no ban on the personal use of laptops. I could have streamlined my work-space by getting rid of the cumbersome computer. But I prefer to keep my private and public personas separate. I’m careful never to write anything that might be construed as controversial on the laptop. Chiefly, because I have strong opinions on some of the ethical issues that have arisen in relation to Australia’s military intervention in the Middle East; and teachers aren’t encouraged to voice their opinions in public, least of all at St. Agnes’s.

  I dragged my mind back to the present and turned on my PC. When my screensaver with a pic of the family homestead appeared, I clicked on my Gmail account. My hands trembled as I waited for the site to load. Nothing from Karim. I’ve got to stop this ... I’m just torturing myself. Again I snapped my wrist band, then reached for the mouse and clicked the internet explorer icon.

  It took ages for Google to open. I made a mental note to check the service directory in the local paper for an IT technician in case my PC had contacted a virus. Something I thought quite likely because I’m researching bio-warfare for my blog and also for a novel I’m writing, as a consequence I’ve opened up some pretty dodgy sites. The novel is still at the planning stage but my blog is up and running.

  I started writing biocide.com after receiving an email from a former colleague who is now volunteering in Turkey. According to what she heard from the latest batch of Syrian refugees, rockets containing the chemical agent sarin, exploded in Aleppo. The refugees maintained that 1,400 civilians died horrible lingering deaths. But though that atrocity was the catalyst; the roots of what I think of as my crusade began ten years ago when Mo and I discovered the International Space Station had been used to manufacture a bacteriological weapon. Though I’m barred from writing about the International Space Station; there’s nothing to stop me blogging about other breaches of the Biological Weapons Convention by nations I formerly thought of as decent and honourable. Nevertheless, I use a pen name.

  To be honest, I’m kind of ashamed of using a false name. For in spite of mixing at Hagadery with idealistic young people from different countries and cultures, all of whom have strong opinions about free speech — when it comes to being counted, I don’t have the courage of my convictions. I hate thinking of myself as a coward but based on how Julian Assange and Edwin Snowden have ended up, I’m not taking any chances.

  I dragged my mind back to the present when the familiar blue, red, yellow and green logo appeared on the screen and typed http://www.biocide.com into the search box and waited impatiently. After a long wait, the familiar blue screen emerged with its revolving satellites and the banner:

  * * *

  Don’t wait for the last judgment, judge for yourself

  ________________________________

  Elizabeth Bennet’s blog on the Ethics of Germ Warfare

  * * *

  First off, I checked my blog’s stats. Page views this month were 1,127, slightly up on last month’s, but not earth-shattering. Still, I’d stumbled on a site about experiments on prisoners-of-war committed by the Japanese Imperial Army during WWII at a secret biological and chemical research unit. I thought it would make a mind-blowing article.

  More than 250,000 men, women and children mainly Chinese, were subjected to lethal experimentation at the facility. According to the website, the researchers were given immunity from prosecution in exchange for data on the effects of bacteriological and chemical agents on human beings. If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was a con, but I knew firsthand, what the countries, I no longer thought of as the good guys, were capable of.

  Before I came upon the site, I hadn’t heard about that atrocity. I guessed others hadn’t either. I clicked on new post and typed: The Horror of Unit 731.

  Five

  I was eavesdropping on a suspect when General Lee dropped by my office. After six weeks in the job I still couldn’t believe that the former helicopter pilot was now a big gun at the National Security Agency with total responsibility for intercepting data from non-Americans.

  “Anything fresh on Bennet?”


  “She’s logged onto a red-flagged site, Sir.”

  The only indication of the general’s alarm was a tightening of his lips. “She’s in Perth you say.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “What else do we know about her?”

  “Very little, apart from her name,” I said, all too aware that my boss was watching me with a mixture of anxiety and annoyance. “Her blog was set up using the email address elizabethbennet@gmail.com, I’ve searched Western Australia’s electoral rolls and phone books, but all the name-matches are squeaky clean.”

  “Are you monitoring her email?”

  “Yes. But it’s inactive.” I paused. “Personally, I think she may have multiple email addresses.”

  “Have you checked with Google, Yahoo, Microsoft and Apple?”

  “Yes and they have nothing on her. If she does have another address it has to be in a different name?”

  “What have you learned from her social media profiles?”

  “She doesn’t have any, Sir ... not even a Facebook page.”

  “That’s suspicious. It wouldn’t surprise me if Bennet turned out to be a man.”

  I shook my head. “According to our linguistic expert, her word choice, use of slang and idiomatic expressions identify her as a university educated Australian female between the ages of 18 to 34 years.”

  He frowned. The majority of terrorist attacks in the States were committed by young US-born males living at home and it was the same in Australia. Radicalized females were thin on the ground. “Have our IT guys set you up with a blog and the popular social media sites?”

  I nodded. “The creatives gave me an alias.” I touched the keyboard and Eli Malouf’s blog appeared on the screen. I swivelled the monitor so that Lee could see the screen.

  “Good looking guy. Who is he?”

  “A US infantryman, killed in Afghanistan and, according to a bud in the CIA, guaranteed untraceable.”

  Lee smiled his enigmatic smile. “Very good.” He shot the cuffs of his jacket and glanced at his vintage Rolex.” According to Otis, Lee’s father, took the watch off a dead Japanese soldier’s wrist during the Sino Japanese War[12]. At the time, his father was a major in the Republic of China Forces in Taiwan. “Have you tried messaging her?”

  “Yes. I commented on a post she wrote about the horrors of Unit 731.”

  “Did she get back to you?”

  “Not yet, Sir.”

  “Have you contacted her again?

  I shook my head. “Some women get nervous if a guy is too eager. There are a lot of dodgy people on the internet and a surefire way to creep-out a girl is to bombard her with one message after another, without giving her time to reply. I don’t want her to block me.”

  “To hell with that, get a conversation underway. If she blocks you we’ll set you up with a new persona.”

  Personally, I thought Bennet was the least likely candidate on the Australian list of suspects to be an extremist. I figured she was a typical female idealist blathering on futilely about world peace. I said, “Am I missing something here? All she’s doing is exercising her constitutional right of free speech.”

  General Lee frowned at me for a moment, then sat down in the visitor’s chair, crossed his legs and pulled at the knife-edge creases in his trousers. “Perth is hosting the G20 next month with the main talking point being the effects of refugees on the members’ economies. She could be planning a terrorist attack.”

  I didn’t see it. The woman’s posts simply denounced the use of chemical weapons. It seemed a big jump to label her a terrorist. But then I suppose if I was in charge of counter-terrorism I’d want to cover all bases. “In that case why not change the location of the G20 to Sydney or Melbourne, Sir?”

  Lee positively scowled. He hooked his fingers over the arms of the chair so tight that his knuckles were bone white. “It’s only four weeks off ... there isn’t time to arrange another venue. Besides if al Qaeda forces us to shut it down they’ll become a worse menace than they already are.”

  I said, “But Sir, you can’t let the conference go ahead ... you can’t put the leaders of the world’s top twenty economies at risk.”

  My boss smiled grimly, “Nothing will go wrong on my watch. You’ve got twenty-eight days and the technological resources of Five Eyes to trace this woman, Lieutenant. Don’t let me down.”

  * * *

  Lee’s appeal slash threat aroused my masculine pride. I’d show him he’d chosen the right man for the job. I opened Bennet’s blog and appraised her post a second time. It made disturbing reading. I scrolled down to comments. Damn, she still hadn’t replied. General Lee had left me in no uncertainty as to the necessity to keep the conversation going. But I didn’t really see how I could make that happen.

  Lots of my mates use Facebook as a free pick-up site. The trouble was that most guys struck out. Being blocked doesn’t faze them because they operate on the plenty-more-fish principle. But I couldn’t risk Bennet unfriending me. Anyway, the analogy was worthless because she wasn’t on Facebook. Now that, I thought, is suspicious.

  Instead of joining the geeks having morning coffee around the exercise pit I drank mine at my desk. Somehow I had to find a way to get Bennet to open up and I have a lot of faith in coffee. It’s common knowledge that caffeine is a surefire way of jump-starting a sluggish brain. I downed a double shot espresso. The lack of ideas remained unaltered. Desperate, I considered asking Jenny, the copywriter who wrote the guff for my site to help me out. But yesterday I’d overheard her telling her mates I was such a keeg[13] — just because I couldn’t figure out how to install an in-app notification tool. In Syria I’d been the squad’s hotshot. I didn’t take kindly to being the butt of jokes. I thought, who needs her help when I have the wisdom of the world at my fingertips?

  In Google, I typed: how do I get a girl to open up to me? And started reading.

  Six

  Wow! My first comment on a post. I was thrilled. I read it again.

  * * *

  Eli Malouf June 1, at 9:40 AM

  I didn’t know that! Thanks 4 sharing.

  Reply

  * * *

  By no means was it the insightful dialogue I’d hoped my post on the horrors of an Asian Auschwitz would generate, but it was a start.

  I glanced down at the time on my PC’s screen. I liked to arrive at school an hour before the first bell, but Eli had responded yesterday, I should get an answer off to him right away.

  * * *

  Elizabeth Bennet June 2, at 7:25 AM

  Eli ... Unit 731 is rarely mentioned but it happened & will again if we don’t learn from history. To find out why you’ve never heard of the Asian Auschwitz click here: http://firsttoknow.com/unit-731-horrors-asian-auschwitz-you’ve-never-heard/

  This article has more information about this atrocity than my post. I was horrified ... I’m guessing you will be too!

  Reply

  * * *

  As I checked my reply for typos, I told Karim how excited I felt. In my head, of course, but even so it felt real. As always in my fantasies, he was supportive of my endeavours. Often when I get into these scenarios, I forget about real life. I sighed. If I didn’t stop having imaginary conversations with my ex, I’d never get over losing him. I pinged my wristband and clicked send.

  * * *

  I stayed behind after school to watch a hockey match between the junior schools’ first and second elevens. Today was Annie’s first day in goal. There was only a couple of minutes to the final whistle and it looked like a draw was coming up. My heart dropped as an opposing striker passed the ball to the first’s centre forward — a natural athlete who trained with the state team. A cheer went up from the smattering of spectators, as she whacked the ball into the net right on the final whistle. I lifted my binoculars but there was no trace of embarrassment on my sister’s face. Instead, she immediately congratulated the winners.

  The school champ shook Annie’s hand and clapped her on the back.
She was one of those sporty girls with a booming voice. From the sidelines, I clearly heard her say, “That was an awesome save you made in the first half. As good as any I can remember.”

  Some of the parents and teachers walked over. I hesitated. I made a point of not singling my sister out for special attention in case the other girls teased her. Not that Annie wouldn’t give as good as she got. Wishing I’d had as much spirit at her age, I gave her a wave and headed home.

  First off, I checked my letterbox. My heart leapt when I saw a postcard with a photo of Hagia Sophia, the most famous tourist attraction in Turkey on the front. Call it wishful thinking, but a small part of me refused to believe Karim had died in the raid that had flattened Suruç’s hospital. I told myself he could have been abducted and forced to use his medical skills to treat rebel soldiers. After all, terrorists have casualties too. It’s possible, I muttered, breathing heavily. His body was never identified.

  My hand shook as I turned the card over. Straight off I recognised the loopy handwriting. I looked down at my wrist and snapped the rubber band hard enough to sting. Ordinarily I would have been thrilled to receive a postcard from my sisters currently backpacking their way around Asia. But the photo on the postcard awoke the melancholy monster that has made a home in my subconscious. Dormant most of the time, when it wakes I’m a complete wreck — all I want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep.

  Sleeping was out of the question. I’d set my year-eleven students an essay on the danger of totalitarian governments with reference to “1984”, and though the assignment wasn’t due until tomorrow, half a dozen go-getters had already handed it in. The thought of their disappointed faces when they asked if I’ve marked their work was the best way to combat the inertia that in my case accompanied depression.