Lyköan had never doubted the story. During the heyday of The Troubles, catastrophic loss premiums in Northern Ireland had been veritable goldmines for courageous risk-takers. Well into his sixties now, the old boy was simply making the most of his money. Why begrudge a man the dissipation of an honestly-earned fortune? Weren’t fortunes sought precisely so they could be pissed away?
In stark contrast, Lyköan was still many years from even the possibility of similar leisure. With forty-five already in the rear-view mirror, only one thing seemed certain: that he was past his prime. Unless something happened ― something big and sometime soon ― a comfortable retirement anything like the one Whitehall was enjoying would be out of the question. Maybe it was envy. Except for Whitehall being twenty years his senior and not nearly as fit, Lyköan couldn’t think of a single reason why he shouldn’t envy the man.
Besides, Lyköan had been devoted to personal fitness long enough to know that keeping yourself in decent shape was something of a moving target. And while he had seriously pursued optimal health for most of his adult life, he seemed to be eternally stuck two American breakfasts ― that hardest-to-lose last kilo of overindulgence ― above his ideal weight. And though he could still cover fifteen klicks at a dead run in about an hour, even through the worst of the dry season heat ― give or take a minute or two, usually give ― he would have been the first to admit that he had lost a step in recent years. Even so, his regular workouts remained as exhaustive as ever ― bordering on self-abuse ― though nothing like the self-abuse old Whitehall practiced.
Lyköan reached the railing an instant before the boat lurched from the dock. Whitehall grabbed Lyköan’s shoulder just in time, pulling himself alongside.
“You slumming today too?” Lyköan tried again as Whitehall settled himself at the railing. “Not a spot I would have ever expected to run into you. Bet there’s an interesting story behind it.”
“Out on an errand,” Whitehall replied, staring blankly upriver. “Like you, also a bit of business. A beautiful day for it, no?”
“Business?” Lyköan asked with an obvious edge in his voice, irritated that Whitehall had now twice deflected his question. “Out here? What sort of business, Whitehall, monkey business maybe?”
“How’s that, then?” Whitehall asked, reacting to Lyköan’s tone with a furrowed brow. “Rather inquisitive today, aren’t we?”
Hurriedly stretching for a better segue, Lyköan downshifted. “Sorry,” he lied. “Didn’t mean to pry. Just assumed you had abandoned business a long time ago ― tired of hooks and nets after a life spent fishing, you know? Guess I’m a little surprised you’re still at it. Certainly can’t be out of need.”
“There are all sorts of needs, Lyköan,” Whitehall replied, the deep creases at the corners of his eyes relaxing. “Not all of them are cash-related.”
“Without going into too much detail,” he went on, “let’s just say I’m not ready to let the rust settle in just yet, lad; which it would if I didn’t at least have some focus for my attention ― a hand still in the game. You understand?”
“Anything you’d like to share?” Lyköan had seen an opportunity to clear the unsettled air and had seized it. “You mentioned TAI earlier. This mysterious errand of yours ― any connection?”
Whitehall studied his hands on the rail. Lyköan thought he detected a suppressed sigh.
“A connection? I never implied any such thing. Are you suggesting that I might know more than you do ― about TAI ― or any other deep, dark secret this little faux kingdom is bent on keeping from the light of day?”
Lyköan wasn’t sure what he had meant. Let Whitehall think whatever he liked.
“I just thought… with all your connections, that you…”
“Aren’t there enough rumors already stalking this city?” Whitehall had again skillfully sidestepped Lyköan’s question. “Everyone knows the official story. It may even contain a kernel of truth. Who knows? If you pay close attention, however, especially when the approved story suddenly changes...”
“Has it?” Lyköan asked. “I hadn’t noticed. The only chatter I’ve been hearing lately has been unmitigated praise for how expertly the government handled the outbreak.” Now that the rocks of the earlier exchange had been left safely astern, Lyköan had decided it was safe enough to return to discovering what had really brought Whitehall so far from his usual high-rent haunts.
“Why the interest?” Now it was Whitehall who was probing.
Lyköan shrugged. “Just making conversation.”
“It hardly matters,” Whitehall continued, apparently willing to accept Lyköan’s weak explanation. “Regardless of the source: your people, my people, even if the words were to come straight out of the king’s own mouth ― by definition ― every bloody word of it would still be hearsay.”
Pushing away from the railing, Whitehall took a step back towards the middle of the deck. Turning again and leaning in close, he spoke directly into Lyköan’s ear.
“Anyway, don’t you have more pressing concerns at the moment ― much closer to home?”
“Concerns?” Lyköan asked, surprised by the remark. “Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know…” Whitehall began slowly. A long pause, then with more energy, “We could start with that pathetic excuse for an import-export business of yours. For God’s sake, Lyköan, the bloody enterprise barely covers expenses. Am I wrong? Anyway, not much of a going concern at the moment, is it? Be honest, you’re absolutely desperate. Especially now that you fear your last real chance at grasping the old brass ring may be slipping away ― even as we speak.”
Is he talking about the Primrose deal? How could he possibly have gotten wind of that?
Lyköan deadened his voice. “What is this, a come-on from the Harold Whitehall School of Self-Realization?”
“No, no, nothing of the sort, lad. No need to get defensive ― really. Under the circumstances I just thought you might like to know that people far more influential than poor old Harry Whitehall have already taken an interest in you ― people eager to offer their considerable assistance.”
Lyköan froze at the rail, every hair on the back of his neck erect. He turned, saw something flash in Whitehall’s cool grey eyes, flutter there for an instant and then disappear.
CHAPTER TWO
Antigenic Shift
Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.
Hippocrates : Precepts
Inside a cramped, makeshift Emory University Hospital isolation suite, Jack Cummings was fighting for his life. Two days before, the twenty-seven year old microbiologist had presented with a raging fever and respiratory symptoms that thus far had failed to respond to treatment. His doctors were baffled. Through some unknown mechanism, the suspected virus had, in the last few hours, circumvented the young man’s blood-brain barrier, adding atypical encephalitis to the growing list of potentially fatal complications.
At his bedside, a ventilator bellows repeated its monotonous hiss and clank while overhead harsh fluorescents hummed. Cloaked in ill-fitting biohazard suits, a team of grim-faced medical specialists toiled in a silence broken only occasionally by barked commands.
Less than a thousand yards away, an equally desperate drama was playing out before a determined tribunal of scientific, administrative and governmental functionaries. CDC Director, Martin Kosoy, cast a harried glance around the crowded conference table, stopping when his eyes reached the agency’s chief virologist. Nora Carmichael returned the glance without emotion. The final frame of Kosoy’s presentation was frozen on the far wall beside an open-faced clock that, displaying eleven twenty-six, was running three minutes fast. Kosoy cleared his throat.
“That’s as far as I am going to take this thing tonight, people. You now know as much as I do. Moving beyond the empirical data would be counterproductive. We just don’t know enough at this point.
“For the time being we’ll just have to tough it out, at least until
we are absolutely certain we’ve contained the exposure to the one BSL-4 lab and Cummings’ hospital room. Hopefully, our remediation efforts have been successful ― but that will require at least another ten days of close surveillance ― Doctor Carmichael’s best estimate of the TAI incubation period. I want to emphasize, that is only an estimate. In the meantime, everyone under my supervision is restricted ― from yours truly to the janitors. Understood?”
Heads around the table nodded in unison.
“It’s entirely possible that one or more members of the response crew or Cummings’ research associates may also have been exposed. I’ve ordered all of them quarantined. In addition, I am immediately suspending all live-virus research ― growth in medium, animal and tissue studies ― all of it. Is that clear?
Again the nods.
“Unfortunately, a simple quarantine doesn’t answer any of the really important questions. We still know almost nothing about this bug. All we have are Cummings’ research data ― but no hint in any of it of how he might have been infected.”
Nora had spotted an opening.
“May I add something, Marty?” If culpability was going to be pinned on anyone, as virology team lead, she was the most obvious target.
Every eye turned.
“Before he fell ill, Jack had already colonized the virus ― even run a preliminary antigen scan. While the data are incomplete ― certainly can’t be duplicated if the labs are going to be quarantined, they do provide a few tantalizing clues. I’m wondering if a little speculation right now might save us some time ― and more importantly, lives.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Kosoy agreed. “Cummings’ daily reports. But as you just admitted, they’re incomplete, inconclusive. We’ll have plenty of time to pursue speculation ― including your own, Doctor ― once we’re certain we’ve contained exposure. This really isn’t the forum for—”
“I agree,” Nora again interrupted, “the data aren’t conclusive; but they are suggestive. The Bangkok experience suggests the same thing.”
“A supposition,” Kosoy countered. “Which cannot be proven. At least not here. Not tonight. These ladies and gentlemen still have superiors and staffs to debrief. But I promise, Doctor, the minute we adjourn, you and I can continue this discussion ― however far you want to take it.”
Nora pressed. “With all due respect, Director, but while we’re all here, I think it’s absolutely crucial that I mention one possibility.” Ignoring Kosoy’s narrowing eyes, she turned to the other faces around the table.
“I admit, it is only a supposition. There’s no proof. But it’s a well-considered supposition. The virulence and mortality rates suggest the same thing ― all the markings of an influenza virus that has made an antigenic shift.”
She was rushing now, words tumbling, pitch rising. “Unlike the far more common, antigenic drift variations, antigenic shift mutations generally result in far more catastrophic host responses. The murderous Spanish flu pandemic of 1918 is the classic example. If true, this could be a virus capable of wiping out whole segments of the global population.
“What is even more disturbing ― something also seen in the Thai experience ― antigenic shift variants frequently prove most deadly to healthy hosts, people in the prime of life. Antigenic drift mutations are generally more opportunistic, they prey upon the very young and old or those with compromised immune systems. The mortality statistics from Bangkok also support the antigenic shift hypothesis. While it’s true that we don’t have proof, we do have the numbers. By the way, the 1918 pandemic inexplicably went dormant from March until September.”
Kosoy took advantage of the breath Nora’s impassioned speech now demanded.
“You can step off the soap-box, Doctor. Everyone here got the message. Loud and clear. I let you have your say. Now it’s my turn. If you’ll permit me... No unsupported suspicions. Just the evidence. It is also the official position, the one we plan to present in tomorrow’s CDC press release ― including the measures we are taking to protect the public.
“And that statement will reiterate that ― except for Cummings ― there hasn’t been a single new TAI infection in more than a week ― anywhere on earth. Most communicable diseases ― as you are well aware ― develop much differently. The contagion spreads from pocket to pocket of traveling exposure, whether through intermediary vectors or human hosts. That has definitely not been true with TAI. Which makes it extremely unlikely that this is a mutation of ― say ― something like H5N1 or H7N9 avian influenza ― if that’s what you’re suggesting. I’m not saying the virus poses no danger at all, only that the threat has been contained ― at least for the moment.”
When Nora refused the bait ― it had been bait, hadn’t it? ― Kosoy took a quick breath and continued.
“But to be absolutely certain we are not overlooking anything, tomorrow’s statement will go on to announce that we are sending our most experienced virologist to confer personally with the World Health Organization, already investigating in Thailand. I’ve spoken privately with the Secretary and she specifically asked for you, Carmichael.”
Nora felt the room swim. Kosoy’s forced smile confirmed what she had heard. She still didn’t believe it.
“The Secretary insisted I make the announcement tonight,” Kosoy added without missing a beat. “You’ve expressed your concerns, Doctor. Here’s the perfect opportunity to test your hypothesis and present your ideas directly to the investigative team that’s been dealing with TAI from the get-go.”
Nora wasn’t prepared. The shock had been palpable, a flush of anger and disbelief. Here she was, only a few hours back from a grueling session before a Capitol Hill headhunting expedition ― protecting the CDC and Kosoy’s bacon ― and now this. Not even a chance to catch her breath. Accept this assignment and travel to Southeast Asia ― or what? What was Kosoy really trying to accomplish ― remove a potential thorn from his side and solve the TAI riddle, with one piqued bureaucratic stone? No way of knowing. And the bastard was still smiling.
* * *
Alone after the meeting had ended, Nora felt far less confrontational. The heat of the moment had cooled, replaced by a grim anxiety. She had grown more apprehensive, if that were possible, small and vulnerable, focused completely on the looming inevitable that now lay ahead. Accepting this assignment might not be her only option, but the alternatives were even less palatable.
At the conference room doorway, Kosoy approved the final wording of the next day’s press release and, waving his secretary down the hall, closed the door. Turning back into the room, a wan smile scrawled across his face, he came across the room looking as though he didn’t want to cover this terrain any more than Nora wanted to be dragged over it.
“I’m sorry if you think I’ve pulled a fast one on you, Nora, but I get my marching orders the same as you. The drill masters just have different names.”
“I understand, Marty,” Nora replied. “We all answer to powers we either fear or are beholden to. I won’t say I’m happy about it, but I do understand. Presented with the same set of circumstances I would probably have done exactly the same thing. It just would have been nice if you’d discussed this with me before announcing it to the whole goddamn world.”
“You were in Washington,” Kosoy tried to explain. “There wasn’t time. Wiznecki forced my hand. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Bastard.”
“You’re probably right. And it doesn’t matter if you’re hurling that epithet at the Madam Secretary or me. I know it sounds patronizing, but you’re the best candidate for this assignment. Surely, you understand that much.”
“Best candidate, Herr Direktor? Or just plain convenient?” The sarcasm was all that remained of her earlier fire. “By your own admission, all I’ve got are a few unsupported suppositions.”
“But you trust your instincts,” Kosoy pointed out. “Speaking up tonight proves that much. And if you think about it, your testimony on the Hill last week actually served two purposes.
First, the subcommittee pack dogs were placated ― for now anyway. But more importantly, you managed to avoid exposure back here in the lab. The other four members of your team became quarantine targets the minute Cummings fell ill. You were left in the clear. Until we know more, every other potential exposure victim is far more subject to the whims of those powers you just mentioned than either of us.”
“You have a family too, Marty,” Nora pleaded. “You must realize how disruptive this is going to be for everyone in mine. It’s not just myself I’m thinking about.”
“I understand, but listen ― and feel free to accept or reject what I’m about to say.” Kosoy took a breath. “I don’t need to tell you about the risk posed by more infections. But, have you considered that you might be protecting your girls more by leaving them and leaping into the breach ― in fact, be protecting them by doing so ― than you ever would by tucking them in at night?”
Nora didn’t answer immediately. She was thinking ahead. Who could she find to look after the girls on such short notice? And only a few hours left to locate that someone. “Any idea how long this little assignment is likely to last?”
“The short answer? I don’t know. Until you learn something useful or run out of leads.”
“Great. An indefinite sojourn ― in Hell.” Wasn’t the eighth circle reserved for alchemists? “How am I supposed to report my findings?” The enormity of the task ahead was only now fully dawning on her.
“HHS promised to have everything ready by five tomorrow, before your flight ― contact information, milestone expectations, all of it. Since you’re facing twenty-some-odd hours of airtime, it might be a good idea to head home ― get a good night’s sleep. Start fresh in the morning. Take all of tomorrow to put your affairs in order. Don’t worry about any responsibilities here, I’ll handle those. And allow you first refusal for any decisions I make. Feel free to communicate with us ― as often as you want. Ten times a day if you like. We aren’t abandoning you, Nora. The CDC has resources around the globe. If necessary, I can personally call in a few markers to help you through this.”
The SONG of SHIVA Page 2