by John Holt
It was now quite dark. The black Ford was nowhere to be seen, but he could just see the Pontiac in the moonlight. He nodded his head. They were still inside. He checked his watch. “Nine twenty-five.” He had been there for almost three hours now. What were they doing? He looked up at the sky. The rain was getting heavier, and black clouds now filled the sky. It did not look promising. There was a storm brewing. He hoped that he would be long gone before it actually arrived.
The darkness was relieved only by the dull orange glow coming from the lights inside the warehouse. Suddenly that glow was extinguished, and the area was plunged into complete darkness. Kendall looked towards the building. He suddenly heard creaking as the main door swung open. He then saw a stream of light from a flashlight sweep across the clearing, and over towards the Pontiac. There was the sound of the door closing. He then heard the noise of footsteps walking quickly over the gravel. A few minutes later the two men came into sight, as they made their way back to their car. They were each carrying a large suitcase. A moment or two later the car engine burst into life and the headlights came on. There was a squeal of tyres and the car drove away.
Kendall waited ten more minutes. Satisfied that the two men were now far away, he opened his car door, and got out. Slowly, he made his way over to the warehouse. The door was locked and padlocked. He walked a little further around the building until he found a small window that was slightly open. He pushed it. It would not budge. He pushed it once more, harder this time. He repeated the action again and again. Suddenly the window moved slightly. One more heave, and it snapped from its hinge and fell noisily to the ground. Kendall gave a deep sigh, and looked around quickly. There was no one there.
Quickly, he climbed up to the window opening. Holding tightly on to the remains of the frame he lowered his legs in through the aperture, his feet dangling, feeling for a foothold. Suddenly his feet touched a box of some kind. He let go of the window frame. For a few seconds he balanced precariously on the box. It then toppled over, and Kendall fell heavily to the ground, striking his knee as he landed. As he did so he dislodged a number of other boxes, which came crashing down to the floor all around him. Anyone within a radius of twenty miles would have heard him.
He lay quietly on the floor for a few moments, trying to catch his breath. He listened for any tell tale sound. There was nothing. The place was deserted. No one had heard him. Or if anyone had, they had not been moved sufficiently to carry out any kind of an investigation. Slowly he got to his feet. He felt around trying to find the torch that he had been carrying. He found it and switched it on. He was inside what appeared to be a small storeroom. There were boxes all over the floor, their contents spilt over on to the floor.
Kendall bent down to see what it was. It was bottles and bottles of printer ink. A number of the bottles had burst open, and inks of various colors were now slowly spreading across the floor. Kendall looked down, and sighed when he noticed that some of the ink had got on to his new shoes. Carefully trying to avoid any further ink, Kendall made his way out of the storeroom and into the next room.
He was tempted to put on the lights, but decided against. It was too risky. His torch would have to suffice. He looked around the room slowly. It was a large, open room, with a high ceiling. As far as he could see there were no windows. Everywhere he looked he could see the remains of rusting machinery. Hanging from the ceiling was a number of chains, and pulleys. On two of the walls was floor to ceiling steel shelving. The shelves were full of boxes. Over to one side was a long workbench. On top of the bench was a selection of the inks that Kendall had found. On the ground next to the bench were several rolls of paper. In the middle of the room were three printing presses. Kendall walked over to the presses. On the first one was a simple label on which was written the word “Pounds”. The next press was simply marked “Dollars”. The last said simply “Euros”.
Kendall nodded, Devaney had been right, and now he had the proof. He reached into his pocket, and took out a small digital camera. He set it to flash, and proceeded to take a series of photographs. He then walked over to the shelving, and took down one of the boxes. He placed it on to the ground, and opened it. It was full of bundles of ten-dollar bank notes. He smiled as he picked up one of the bundles. He looked at the notes, and shrugged his shoulders. The face of Alexander Hamilton stared impassively back at him. To Kendall’s untrained eye the notes appeared to be the genuine article. They looked right, and they felt right. He could hardly believe that they weren’t real, and that they were counterfeit.
He sighed deeply and let go of the bundle, allowing it to fall back into the box. He continued to look at the notes for a few more moments. There must have been at least twenty thousand dollars in that one box alone. He slowly cast the torchlight over the remainder of the shelving. He couldn’t begin to guess how many boxes there were, but it was certainly well over one hundred.
“There must be millions here and all of it counterfeit.” He started to laugh. Devaney will be pleased, very pleased, indeed. He bent down and picked up one of the bundles of dollar banknotes. He started to tap the side of his face. Then he shrugged, and quickly placed the bundle in his jacket pocket. “A little present for Devaney,” he murmured, as he started to make his way back to the small storeroom.
* * *
Kendall was well pleased with himself. He had finished writing his report about the counterfeit operation, and Mollie was now typing it out. His eyes were closed, and his head lay back. Apart from the low hum from the radio, there wasn’t a sound to be heard.
Mollie glanced at him, and smiled. If he wasn’t asleep already, he would be in a few more minutes. She looked at the radio and shook her head. Was there nothing better to listen to than that nonsense, she murmured. Earlier Kendall had been listening to a programme about Elvis Presley. It was hardly her kind of music, but it was at least bearable. Now there was just a lot of endless talking, about something or other. On and on it went, constant babbling. She wasn’t sure what it was all about. She really wasn’t paying that much attention. Whatever it was she could live without it, that much was certain. For a moment or two she debated whether or not to get up, walk over to the radio, and switch it off. She looked at Kendall once again. Suddenly he yawned loudly, and stretched his arms into the air. “Do you want that?” she asked, jumping at the opportunity.
Kendall turned, opened his eyes and looked at her, puzzled. “What?” he asked, yawning once again. “Do I want what, exactly?”
She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. She pointed at the radio. “Do you want that programme?” she asked. “On the radio?”
Kendall looked at the radio, and shook his head. “Oh that,” he replied. “Oh no, I don’t need the radio.” He wasn’t really listening to it. It was only another of those interminable news items about that virus infection that was happening miles away somewhere. Kendall couldn’t even tell you the name of the place, or where it actually was. He couldn’t even tell you the name of the virus. He wasn’t really that interested. It just didn’t really concern him. “It’s just a lot of media hype, anyway,” he murmured.
The latest reports about the virus had indicated that there had been another three hundred and twenty confirmed cases that day, and that there had been another four deaths. He shook his head. “All of this fussing,” he muttered. “More people die on the roads every year. No one says a thing. And yet a few deaths from an old flu virus and you never stop hearing about it. Everyone goes mad.” Not quite mass hysteria, he had to admit, but pretty close. Certainly the media lapped it up. It had been front-page news for weeks now. Front page and every other page too. Nothing else was happening in the World. There were no wars, no political scandals, no floods, and no crime, nothing. Why even global warming had ceased to be an issue.
He sat up, reached forward and turned the sound down a fraction. What were the authorities doing about it anyway, he wondered. Precious little as far as he could tell.
“Somebody, somewhere
, though, is making money out of this, a lot of money,” he said to himself. “And it is pretty clear that the somebody is the drug companies. They’ll make millions of dollars, maybe billions.” He sighed at the thought of all of that money. “They must be loving all of this publicity, and hoping that it spreads and spreads, and keeps on spreading. It’s probably them who are actually spreading the stories around. It’s probably all lies anyway, or gross exaggeration at the very least.”
* * *
Chapter Eight
Richard Dawson
The Rican flu virus continued its relentless journey north through the Penninsula into Honduras, Guatemala, and on into Mexico. First it struck the small villages close to the border, and then it spread out into the tourist centers at Acapulco on the west coast, and Cancun over to the eastern side. At the same time the virus also travelled south, into Columbia and Venezuela. It was not long before it arrived in Argentina and Brazil.
“Gazeta Do Rio”, Rio de Janiero, Brasil, Wednesday - “A spokesperson for the Interior Ministry announced today that there have been five cases of Rican flu confirmed. Two were in Rio de Janiero, two in Brasilia, and one in the Manaus area, in the north of the country. All five patients have been taken to hospital. In all five cases the symptoms have been described as being mild, and all five patients are said to be comfortable, and stable. It is understood that they will be kept under observation for the next day or two.”
“La Nacion,” Buenos Aires, Argentina, Wednesday - “Argentina’s Health Minister has recently reported that a twenty-four year old man suffering from the so-called Rican Flu, has become the country’s first patient to die from the disease. The Minister told a news conference late last night that the man, an oil worker from the south, and as yet un-named, died in a Buenos Aires hospital in the early hours of Monday morning, becoming South America’s twenty-second fatality from the virus. Chile has already seen three deaths, and Colombia two. To date there have been one thousand two hundred and seventy-nine confirmed cases worldwide, since the first known case was confirmed in Costa Rica six months ago.”
* * *
Kendall shrugged his shoulders, and sighed deeply, as he reached forward once again, and switched the radio off. He didn’t need to hear about the infection, it was all pretty depressing anyway. It wasn’t that he was hard, or unfeeling. He was as soft as you could get. It wasn’t that he was insensitive, unkind, or uncaring. Certainly he was sorry for the people concerned, and certainly he sympathized with the bereaved families. But that’s as far as it went. Try as he might it really didn’t concern him that much. It was just that it was happening so far away. It just didn’t really affect him, that’s all, and he just couldn’t get that worked up about it. There was nothing he could do about it anyway, was there?
* * *
A few short miles away however there was a very different story. A young man was following the news very closely. In fact he had been following this particular story for almost six months now. Ever since his boss, the editor of the Miami Herald had placed a copy of ‘La Republica’ on his desk. It had been dated three days earlier. Across the front-page the banner headline simply read “Mysterious Illness Strikes” in thick black letters, almost three inches high.
“Richard,” his boss had said, “I want you to find out everything that you can about this Rican flu. What it is, how it was caused, what the authorities are doing about it, that kind of thing. You know what I want. As a start, check that out.” He started to tap the newspaper. “That story occurred in a place called Punta Rojas,” he explained. He paused for a moment. “I think that you are familiar with that name if I’m not mistaken.” He placed a small buff colored folder next to the newspaper. It was simply labeled “Punta Rojas, Trenton Pharmaceuticals, 2005.”
Richard Dawson picked it up and smiled. He recognized it instantly.
* * *
As part of his research into the story Richard Dawson had actually spent some time in Punta Rojas itself, and had spent quite some time at the local hospital. That was where the first case had been reported. He had learnt a lot of useful information from a staff nurse, Juanita Martes. He now knew what the virus was, and how it spread.
What connection there was between the present outbreak, and Puntas Rojas in 2005 was, however, still unclear. Where Trenton Pharmaceuticals fitted in, if indeed they did, was also unclear. “Time to tackle Trenton Pharmaceuticals direct,” he thought.
Trenton Pharmaceuticals were the largest drug company in the world. They should know something about this epidemic, he thought. Furthermore they were mentioned in that query raised all of those years previously. Certainly, they had stated that they had never heard of Punta Rojas, and did not have a presence there. And yet Carlos was so certain, so sure that Trenton had been there. He shook his head, and frowned. Of course it could just be a strange co-incidence, but somehow that did not seem very likely. After all Punta Rojas was such a small insignificant place. No one that he had spoken to had ever heard of it before. Most of the Atlases that he had checked did not even show it. Even the Internet only contained the smallest of entries, “Punta Rojas, in the Province of Javea, Costa Rica. Population: three thousand four hundred and twenty two. Tourism and coffee are the main activities.” And that was about it.
* * *
Dawson took a deep breath, and reached across his desk, for the telephone. He dialed the operator. “Get me Trenton Pharmaceuticals, would you please?” he said when it was answered. There was a click and the line went silent for a few moments. Then there was another clicking sound. “Putting you through now,” said a guttural voice.
“Trenton Pharmaceuticals,” a voice answered after a few moments. “How can I help you?”
Dawson explained who he was, and the purpose of the call. He would not bother with the Press Section, not this time. This time he would go straight to the top. “I would like to speak to Mr. Alan Clark, please.”
There was a momentary pause. “I’ll see if he is available, sir,” came a haughty response. The line went dead. For a moment Dawson thought that he had been cut off. Suddenly he could hear background noises. Then the haughty voice returned. “Mr. Clark won’t be a moment. Will you hang on, or shall I …”
“I’ll hang on,” Dawson said quickly.
A few minutes later, Dawson was put through. “Mr. Dawson, Alan Clark here,” a voice said. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. Now, what exactly is it that I can do for you?”
Once again Dawson explained the reason for his call. “It’s about this epidemic. This so-called Rican flu,” he said. “I’m doing a series of articles about it for the Miami Herald.” He paused for a moment. “You know the sort of thing. Information about epidemics; how they occur, how they spread, the treatment, that sort of thing.”
“Oh I see,” Clark replied. “Certainly, that’s not a problem. I’ll see what I can get together for you.” There was a brief pause. “It’s just after eleven o’clock”, Clark continued. “Could you come over at about four? I should have something for you by then.”
“Four o’clock,” Dawson repeated. “That will be fine. Thank you very much.”
“All right, Mr. Dawson. I’ll see you at four,” Clark replied. He hung up.
* * *
“Mr. Dawson, Richard Dawson,” a voice suddenly called out.
Dawson looked up. “I’m Dawson,” he said.
The young girl at the reception desk smiled. “Mr. Clark will see you now,” she said. She looked at the door to her left. “You can go right in.”
Dawson returned the magazine he had been reading to the low table next to his chair. He glanced at his watch casually. Twenty past four, he murmured. Not too bad, he thought. In fact it could have been much worse. He could have refused to see me at all. Dawson stood up and walked towards the door. He stopped at the door, turned, looked at the young girl and smiled. She smiled back and nodded. He tapped on the door, opened it, and entered the room.
As the door opened, Alan Clark looke
d up. “Do come in, Mr. Dawson,” he said. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long. Have a seat.” He reached over to the intercom and pressed the button. “Oh, Barbara,” he said when he had been answered. “Could you bring in some coffee, please?” He looked across at his visitor. “I’m sure that you could do with one. I know I can.”
A few minutes later there was a tap on the door. It opened and Barbara came in. She placed the coffee on the table, and without saying a word, went out of the room.
Clark pushed a cup towards Dawson. “Help yourself to cream and sugar,” he said. He took a drink. “Now, what about this virus?” he continued. “What can I tell you?” He paused for a moment. He looked down at his desk and picked up a buff folder. He looked at Dawson and smiled. “I’ve got some background information for you,” he said as he offered the file to the young man. “General information about viruses, how they occur, how they spread, that sort of thing.” He paused once again. “I’ve also put in some information regarding vaccines, and how they are developed.” He shook his head. “Of course it is all very general, but it’s a start.”
Dawson took hold of the file and opened it. He glanced casually through the papers. As far as he could see it was all fairly standard material. A few charts, diagrams, and some technical details. He looked up and smiled. “Thanks very much,” he said as he closed the file and started to tap the desk. “All pretty useful, I would say.” He shrugged, and smacked his lips together. “But what about this specific virus?” he asked. “This Rican flu?”
Clark sighed. “It’s a little too early to say anything definite,” he replied. He shook his head. “We really don’t know that much,” he explained. “Not yet. What we do know is that it appears to be a mutation.”