by Larry Baxter
He updated the group on the events of the last few weeks and on the search for the antiviral in the cave writing. Then he ticked off names and assignments. "Curtis, arrange food with a local restaurant. Margo, good to have you here. Can you run production?"
"Sure, Dr. Asher, just get me something to produce."
"Great. Pick a staff of five and set up a production line for the antiviral. We don't know if it will be injection, oral, or what, stay loose. We're not even totally sure if we're getting a vaccine or drug therapy or both. Maya scholars report to Teresa, you'll be helping with the translation. Halpirin, pick a staff of four and work on medical and isolation facilities. Art Baker, hi, good to see you again. Hook up with the researchers in Austin and the Mexican authorities, give us a report daily."
"What's our schedule?" asked Sanford.
"We'll meet here at 8:00 A.M. every morning for breakfast. Baker can start the day off with the reports. Giovanni, handle the rest of the communications with the States, feed the interesting data to Baker, set up a Web page, coordinate with Dr. Teppin in Boston. Accounting, do your thing. Don't get in the way too much. Or, better still, don't worry too much about accounting. You can help with purchasing."
"What's the Web page for?"
"Post the glyphs and the translations we're sure about. We'll update it as we make progress. Publicize it through ProMED and the CDC. We'll get free help."
"Aren't there a lot of other teams working on cures?" asked Sanford. "What's the chances somebody else comes up with a fix?"
"There is one new possibility for a cure; they're working on it back home," said Robert. "We now have reports of fifteen cases among the Maya and we have had five complete recoveries: thirty-three percent survival compared to less than one percent for the non-Maya cases. The survivors are on their way to Atlanta with blood from the Maya victims. There's a possibility that the specific antigen can be isolated and we may get some chance at immunization. That will require several months at a minimum, even with multiple teams working around the clock."
A researcher asked, "The Maya are immune? Do we know why?"
"Our early guess was that the Maya civilization's decline was caused by the virus. Even if one percent of the population survived at that time, they could have bred the antibody back into the general population. This is substantiated by the writing we've been translating in the cave."
"Is antigen isolation going to happen here?"
"No, that's being handled in Atlanta. Our job is still to dig out the cure that the Maya apparently found twelve centuries ago. Remember, the Maya did not lose ninety-nine percent of their population, maybe only twenty or thirty percent, and the difference may be that cure, as if it came too late to prevent some loss of life."
"Yeah, but what's the status here?" asked a truculent process chemist. He stood up. "We're doing all this thrashing around and you still don't have a cure? You're looking at cave drawings or something? I don't believe this. I was pulled off an important product development for this, and my product works."
Teresa spoke, "We think we're quite close to a translation. The evidence seems to say that the Maya had the antiviral."
"But there's no guarantee—even if you find a translation—that it will work. This is a billion to one shot. Madness."
Robert felt his blood pressure rising rapidly and tried to keep it under control. "We are definitely a long way from a sure thing. But I'd say we're about a thousand to one shot. At those odds, we are a long way from madness. This virus could make the Black Plague look like a hangnail, a million people might be saved from a horrible death if this long shot pays off, and that's worth damn near any effort we can give it. There's a thousand different groups working their butts off on thousand to one long shots, you do the math. I expect I'll be working sixteen-hour days, and I expect most of you will be working sixteen-hour days. Not because I say so, but because you realize the importance of what we're doing here. If we find an antiviral we go on twenty-four hour days until we ship it. If you're not ready for this, go home. We cannot afford to have anybody here who is not signed up for the program."
The chemist glared. Five seconds passed. "All right, I'll give it one week."
Chapter 39
* * *
Playa del Carmen, November 15, 2010, Midnight
Ernesto Porfirio Raul Diaz with his sergeant Hector and his troops filed off the sixty-foot sport fishing boat onto the creaking town dock and into an old school bus. They were dressed like locals, not an invading army, and nobody paid any particular attention as they drove off down the coast. They pulled off the road south of Xel-Ha, dismissed the bus and waited there for a few minutes until an old stake-back truck drove south. Ernesto signaled with his flashlight, and the truck pulled off into the small clearing. They pulled the canvas cover off the truck bed and handed each soldier a backpack, a large flashlight, and a rifle. The truck rattled off to the north.
Ernesto led the soldiers single file five miles into the brush to a flat area, screened from above by a tangle of branches and protected on the north side by an irregular limestone cliff face ten feet high. A shallow cenote at the base of the cliff held fresh water. Hector deployed the troops and assigned sentry duty in a small four-hundred-yard perimeter, with the sentries communicating by radio and staying in place rather than attracting attention by patrolling.
This was perfect, peaceful, almost, this camp in the jungle. It must be in his Revolutionista blood. So much more honest than the fancy hotel. He broke off a few branches of springy brush to help out his mattress and settled in comfortably.
At dawn, Ernesto arose early and checked his force. They were scattered haphazardly around the jungle site. It was near a huge ragged pothole in the earth where a cavern roof had fallen, and the cliff face and large erratic boulders made convenient backstops for the tarpaulins the soldiers had set up in case of rain. Well, good enough, he didn't need boy scouts, he needed fighters. These men looked like fighters, desperate to prove their worth so that they could move up the organization's food chain from five pesos day to, who knows, ten a day?
Ernesto located four of the city boys he had asked for, three of whom had been in the Yucatán before, and sent two teams of two off to Playa del Carmen and Tulum to scout the terrain. What else? Nothing more until the scouts reported back. He could smell tortillas browning in corn oil, and Hector brought him a tin cup full of good dark Columbian coffee, better even than the fancy restaurant in the fancy hotel. But a light misty rain started falling, unusual in this season. He growled to himself and tightened his coat.
Chapter 40
* * *
Akumal, November 16, 2010
Robert Asher was pleased to find that Hotel Austin's food committee had managed a continental breakfast, perhaps from the week-old bakery shelf. But the coffee was good and plentiful. Art Baker cleared his throat self-consciously and began his report.
"Good morning. Dr. Asher asked me to collect and report on the progress of the virus. I talked yesterday afternoon with Gary Spender, he's running the Austin operation. There is also a web site that C.D.C. started, it includes postings from other researchers and it front-ends a large international database. We will add our status reports to this web site unless anybody has an objection?" He looked at Robert who confirmed the idea with a nod. "I have also drawn a graph of mortality count vs. time in Texas, posted on the far wall, which I will be keeping up to date."
"Bad news," continued Baker, his brow furrowing. "As we had feared, we have more evidence that the original outbreak of the virus was in fact here in the Yucatán. The hospital in Mérida admitted a young Maya patient yesterday afternoon at 1:30 with a black tongue and high fever. They had been on alert and they quickly moved him into a biosafety level three isolation room, but they don't have good decon or Racal equipment and they are worried about contamination."
"Where was he from?" asked Robert.
"A jungle settlement not all that far from here, near Cobá. The settlement had
only a dozen people. They're being isolated and watched. There are also reports of another settlement farther into the jungle with many deaths."
"How are you coming with setting up communications?"
"Giorgio is handling it. E-mail is through ProMED. He has also made contact with PAHO, the Pan American Health Organization, and with officials in Mérida as well as Austin and Washington and Boston, so our phone number and e-mail address is in circulation. The Mexican government through our Mérida consul has let us know that they are standing by with whatever support we need. I think that with the Mérida case and the nearness of Austin to the border, they are more concerned now. That concludes my report. Dr. Asher, should I also prepare an update for the lunch or the dinner meal?"
Robert nodded. "Yes, please. If you get interesting data, share it. Teresa, anything on the translation?"
She looked sad. "Sorry, no. With the additional staff the cave was getting a little crowded, so we made same-size Cibachrome photos of the cave wall glyphs and pasted them up in the function room. Most of us are working there now. We have no guess when or if a full translation will be available, but we're making slow progress and we're hopeful."
"Anything else?" asked Robert.
"Some of the Bolero crew are helping. They're anchored just offshore. You should all meet Todd Goldstein and Gabor; they helped us break into the cave. Todd scanned the Cibachromes piece by piece into the computer and posted them on the web site. This will extend our reach to other Maya experts."
"Great idea," said Robert.
"We translated an interesting sub-plot in the glyphs, describing the setup of the laboratory and the university. Seems as though the big guy was a scientist called Peloc. He invented the microscope, assembled the staff, and cataloged the elements. He must have been a genius."
A loud exhaust noise from a broken or missing muffler announced the arrival of a large van. Robert cranked open a window as the truck pulled into the clearing. The truck driver yelled, "Delivery." They off-loaded several hundred masks that fitted over the nose and mouth, directing the breath through an activated charcoal membrane. "Ugly," said Teresa.
"Keep it with you," said Robert. "Wear it if the humidity rises." They had installed big relative humidity gauges in the main rooms and everyone glanced at them nervously from time to time, but the air stayed dry—less than twenty percent humidity.
Two trailers full of lab and biological process equipment arrived.
No progress was made on the translation.
Later in the day more bad news: more Mexicans from inland had come down with the first symptoms. Federal authorities asked Robert if his installation could provide an isolation ward and Robert readily agreed—as he might need test cases if he ever got to an antiviral—but he said he could not handle more than a dozen. He dispatched three staff members to prepare a trailer with filtered air conditioning, dehumidifiers, and a dozen beds.
Chapter 41
* * *
Ernesto's camp, November 16, 2010
"Pedro, report!" barked Ernesto, gesturing with his nine mm pistol.
The small man smiled nervously.
"It is not so easy, Señor Ernesto. I wait for dark as you say and go into the cave from the land side. There is one guard, a Federale, and I talk to him and give him five hundred pesos, and he says I can look around but I am not to disturb anything. So I look and our Remoras are there, and the hatches are in place, but there is a big hole in the side of one and the product is gone."
"Shit," said Ernesto.
"Sí," said Pedro, nodding, "but only on one, there is the hole. The others—no holes—still good, I think."
"Someone has a loose mouth," said Ernesto, looking at the circle of his men. "There is no other way they could have known about the explosives. That person will die slowly."
"In the cave, I find a new hole in the wall near the storeroom," said Pedro. Everyone turned to look at him again.
"I go through. Two other rooms are there, one has many small statues, maybe good ones. Some are heavy like metal."
"And you left them in place?" asked Ernesto.
"No, Señor Ernesto, I put one little one in my shirt in the back for you, but the guard find it anyway when I leave and he take it for himself."
"What about the second room?"
"Nothing. Very small doorway. Shiny black stone with writing. Walls tip in. Pieces of wood and metal, like old workbench. Long wood benches. Metal junk. Maybe old lamps, hung up on walls, all black. Smells old. People work in there, bright lights, maybe cameras, I just peek in."
"How many people? What kind of work?"
"Maybe ten people, with the cameras and little television things and notebooks. All talking."
"That is all?"
"Sì, Señor Ernesto."
"Where are the college boys?"
"I do not know, Señor Ernesto. I came back quickly to tell you this. Maybe I go back and look now? Maybe Sanchez has found them?"
"Stay here. Sanchez should return soon."
An hour later, Sanchez reported on the frantic activity, with more than twenty-five people working at the converted hotel in Akumal. The hotel was not difficult to discover, as most of the population on the coast knew of the gringos and the bad disease in America. Ernesto listened to all of this and heard of the Federales and the Army stationed in the hotel and thought for a while.
This would be a bigger operation than he thought. Grab everybody except security? Maybe twenty, twenty-five people? The float plane would hold six people—not big enough. OK, what did they need for a minimum? The formula—probably written on the black rocks; hit the cave and grab the rocks. Along with the product. We can leave the Remora, they are not so useful now as the D.E.A. pigs know about them.
So as soon as we make our move, we'll be hip deep in Federales. Gotta move 'em out before anybody finds out. The timing is critical. Start by grabbing two of 'em, coming out of the cave, find out if they're making any progress on the translation. Probably we can set up with the black rocks and maybe a dozen of the college people in Columbia, even if they're not quite finished.
He spoke to the group again, "Hector, get over to the cave, or maybe to the place where they will park their cars. Grab one or two people when they go to their car. Bring them here. Wait, have somebody take their car south and wreck it first, like they drove off the road."
He thought for a minute longer, then said, "OK, listen to this. One, two days, we'll move into the cave, take our product, take the black rocks, take a few of the college boys. Then the boat sends in the dingy, we take the dingy to the float planes. I will call on the radio to arrange a second float plane. Are there questions?" He pointed the pistol at them as if it were a microphone.
"Señor Ernesto," asked Pedro, almost shaking with the difficulty of the question. "In town they said that the people at the hotel are looking for a way to cure a bad disease. The disease makes the tongue turn black and swell up, and then you die. Can we not just take the product without killing the people?"
Ernesto hit him in the mouth with his pistol. "Are there any questions that are not so stupid?"
Pedro sopped up the blood with his shirt, thinking he would not tell Ernesto that the black rocks were stuck to the walls.
Chapter 42
* * *
Ernesto's camp, November 18, 2010
Hector appeared at sundown carrying two people, one over each wide shoulder. They were bound and gagged with duct tape. He shrugged his shoulders and they dropped to the dirt in front of Ernesto, then he ripped the duct tape from their mouths. One male, one female.
"Rojas!" called Ernesto, smiling happily. "Get over here. We gotta talk to these nice people."
Rojas joined him as Ernesto was dragging out four of the big plastic pails for chairs. "Sit down here, please." He gestured as if the pails were upholstered lounge chairs. "We are honored to have you as our guests. Excuse Hector, sometimes he is not so polite. If there is anything we can do to make you comfortable,
please let me know. I am Ernesto."
The man, a small thin man with a bald head and a myopic stare, looked at him with an expression of profound mistrust. The woman said, "Margo Sanford. Leo Halpirin. You can now take us back to the hotel." She had about the shape and the face of a Saint Bernard.
"Of course, but please accept our hospitality for just a few more hours. There are a few items we wish to know about. We have no secrets, yes? I am a simple Columbian businessman, I wish only to have my business run smoothly."
"I know what your business is," said the woman. "And I wish it did not run smoothly."
"Margo, please, can't we be friends?" Ernesto slapped her backhand, his ring tearing a small gash in her cheek. Leo jumped from his chair, but Hector's hand closed around his neck painfully and forced him back.
"Fuck you," said the woman, wiping the blood with the back of her hand.
"Oh, Margo, this is so disappointing. Rojas, she does not want our hospitality. Leo, is it?" Ernesto asked the man. "Can we talk? Or would you like to watch Hector kill this woman by tearing the skin off her face?"
Hector smiled happily. The man seemed to crumble into himself. "What do you want?"
"Ah, there now, so much more civilized." Margo started to speak, but Ernesto slapped her again in the same spot but with a little more force and she subsided. "Margo, my dear, what are you looking for, in our little cave?"