by Nicholas Lim
“Over the next four days with no further cases it was assumed that, although three people had died, there was no wider implication for public health.”
At the other end of the table Connell continued to tap at his organizer. He gave an audible sigh.
“Then yesterday afternoon new information came to light. It appears that administrative errors in neighbouring hospitals and other agencies have resulted in a number of related deaths going unnoticed.”
At the words ‘administrative errors’ Connell put down his organiser.
“How many deaths?” Thorpe asked.
On screen, Kirkpatrick patted his head. White advanced the slide. “By yesterday evening there were a total, not including the first three, of fifteen new cases, including five fatalities, from three hospitals all in the Brighton area.” A buzz of talk began around the room. White reflected a moment on the statistics and felt a sudden burst of confidence. Of course he had been right to raise this alarm. Of course he had! This was real, not his own private nightmare. A queer joy, of duty done come what may, shot through him.
“And as of now?” Connell demanded loudly.
“In the last twelve hours, there have been a further twenty cases and eight new deaths.” White clicked through to a new slide showing a graph. He glanced at Burnett. She gave him a small, distinct nod. The set of her mouth was firm. His voice strengthened “These latest figures, which I received just under an hour ago, suggest the outbreak is continuing to accelerate. We are still waiting for the results from a national data survey,” White turned to acknowledge Kirkpatrick who was fiddling with his tie again, “And clarification of many outstanding alerts. There’s also a possible related outbreak in Indonesia.”
“Confirmed?”
“Not as yet.”
“What’s the data suggesting–”
“–I know about malaria.” Allcock interrupted Hammond. “I was stationed in Singapore eight years.” He took the opportunity to be dry. “Last I looked, we don’t have swamps or a tropical climate.” He looked around the room. “That's the natural environment for malaria.”
“True,” White agreed. “But recent information indicates that the strain we are dealing with may not be wholly natural.”
The room fell silent. At the other end of the table Connell folded his arms.
“The anomalies I mentioned earlier – the high parasitemia and mixed broods – indicated from the start that this strain might be unusual. But it was only this morning, on the discovery of new data by Porton Down, that it became clear that there was a real possibility of an unnatural genesis to this outbreak.”
White paused to collect his thoughts. There was no interruption.
“Firstly,” White clicked the remote, “Slide images of stained saliva were found containing malaria parasite forms only normally found in the salivary glands of the mosquito vector.”
“Again?” Thorpe said irritably.
White stated the implication simply. “This malaria may have the ability for direct human-to-human transmission, infecting orally.”
“Like that bird flu?” Allcock demanded.
White nodded, appreciating the quickness of the man. “Not dissimilar. Only the malaria parasite is a thousand times more sophisticated than a virus.”
White paused again to show a new slide. “Secondly, genetic tests showed the presence of foreign DNA incompatible with natural mutation.”
Thorpe flapped a hand. “Meaning?”
“This malaria could be an artificial – genetically-modified – strain.” Burnett explained. Thorpe’s eyes widened.
Chapter 35
Kirtananda rounded a turn in a steep sheep-run high up on a ridge on the north side of the Valley. He stopped under the partial shade of a twisted Scots pine, its upper trunk bent nearly horizontal by the coastal wind. Below him the sunlight twinkled off the segmented glass dome of the House of Healing. His body became still, eyes fixed on a point near the summit of the hill at the head of the valley.
Rayan slipped on loose flints as he came around the turn. He squatted down behind Kirtananda; his knees touched his ears. Moment later Dharma appeared on the path, followed by Zakiya and Harith. Dharma reached up and swung himself onto the tree’s lowered trunk; his body undulated to unseen music piped through his earbuds. Zakiya and Harith looked at each other, grinned, and dropped down either side of Kirtananda.
Heads turned together. The group became still. They looked with a single gaze at the woman standing beside a stone circle.
Chapter 36
“We have one unconfirmed piece of intelligence that may be related. Two years ago we received information on the theft of an engineered disease agent from a lab that had previously broken GM protocols.” White managed to keep his voice even and controlled. “The reported purpose was commercial: the creation of a ground-breaking new vaccine. The pathogen stolen was an unusual strain of malaria.”
“I confess the report did not come to mind when I heard about the first deaths. However it did this morning, when I received news of the new infections. I looked up the old case notes.”
White clicked the remote.
“The intelligence we have says that a malaria parasite was being genetically re-engineered using transgenic material, specifically sequences from Streptococcus, the same cross strain identified in this outbreak. In my opinion, this cannot be a coincidence. A Professor Richardson was responsible. There is some evidence suggesting a live trial might have been conducted, and covered up.”
“Covered up?” Connell repeated.
“Development in the UK?” Allcock echoed.
Connell spoke, his voice suggesting limited patience. “Do you have any secondary sources?” White frowned. Connell ducked his head like a parent expecting the right answer, “…any corroborating evidence for the spy story part?”
“No.”
“For God's sake.” Connell threw his organiser onto the table in disgust. “I haven't got time to sit here listening to Five’s rumours.” He glanced at Burnett. “Stick to the facts.”
White put the remote control down on the table. “There’s more. Professor Richardson and his family disappeared soon after the theft of the samples from the lab. They have not been seen since. There was a police investigation. It uncovered evidence that kidnapping might be involved; the case is currently classified as a missing persons. Due to Richardson’s clearances and the nature of his protocol violations, intelligence reports were filed but a decision was taken that there was no credible national security threat. That may prove to have been a mistake.”
At the end of the table, Connell dropped his head as if he had been shot.
“From where I’m sitting,” he raised his head, “There seems to have been rather too many of those.”
“We could be talking a bioweapon here,” Allcock said. “A WMD deployed on the UK mainland!”
“It’s a possibility we must consider,” White said.
Hammond cleared his throat. “Can I ask–”
“Possibility?” Connell's interruption was scornful. He raised his voice. “Let me make one thing absolutely clear. We've considered the possibility of a biological attack three times already this year. Each time it’s amounted to nothing and each time we’ve been accused of negative propaganda, government by fear, all that liberal rubbish. Before we run away with ourselves, before we say or do anything, let's take a step back and look at the facts shall we?”
“We start with the fact that this disease has killed a bunch of people…” Connell leaned his chair back on two legs. He sounded bored.
“I wouldn't call it a bunch,” White replied.
“…Now some odd test results come up,” Connell looked straight at White. He appeared to be developing a dislike for him. As an ex-journalist, he particularly disliked being edited. “We have a two-year-old spook report that might or might not be related,” he paused to look around the table then continued. “Now all of a sudden this thing is a WMD attack on the UK mainland. Fact is, we’ve
a bunch of unusual deaths and we'd better find out why.”
“I'd agree with that,” Hammond said. “We need to repeat the lab research. I'd like to know more about these new cases...”
“Christ!” Connell thumped the table and looked slowly around the room. He was starting to enjoy himself. “Our USP is competent, honest government!” He looked around in frustration. “An end to sleaze, whiter-than-white standards in public life, efficient public services. I spend my life getting that message across.” He lounged back in his chair. “And then last week we have more cash for honours leaks involving six backbench MPs, eight peers, seven of them bishops of course–”
“I'm not sure you appreciate the seriousness–” White said.
But Connell brushed aside the interruption, hitting his stride. “Yesterday twenty million identity card records go walkabout in a civil servant’s lunch bag. And now–” his eyes bulged, “Now a dozen – or what was it? twenty deaths? – from some bug – turns up yet another intelligence cock-up!”
Connell rose up in his chair. “When news of those deaths gets out this story is going to be big.” He closed his eyes and nodded agreement with himself. “Real big. Day after tomorrow, it’ll have overtaken the Portland Pigs.” He snorted. “Trust me, the one thing the British public love more than their cute animals is to be scared: happens every few months. Look at the fifty Legionnaire’s deaths in January: that story ran and ran. And the hysterical reaction to those two hundred Dutch-strain measles cases in Cornwall over Easter! Never mind more are killed every day on our roads...”
His eyes narrowed. “The Street is going to be all over us like a bad rash. If we’re going to mount any sort of effective response, any sort of damage-limitation, we need to have all the facts out in one hit.”
“We must understand the intelligence errors.” Connell switched back to White. He eyed him with suspicion. “What happened? How did it happen? Who was responsible?”
White heard the unspoken question. If the shit hits the fan who can we get it to stick to?
Hammond cleared his throat again but Connell did not break eye contact with White.
“Well?” From his tone he did not expect a helpful answer.
Chapter 37
Garrett stood above the maze. There was still no sign of Cherry. She decided if she didn’t see her in ten minutes she would go back for her herself. She thought of Jason. Did he really meditate every prime-numbered hour round the clock? It made her rule of prayer in the novitiate look almost dissolute.
She studied the twists and turns of the maze’s stone corridors laid out beneath her. The path from the closest entrance led, by a circuitous route without paths leading inward, back out to another; she deduced all entrances between those two led to dead ends. By similar eliminations, she quickly identified probable entrances.
The analysis of paths to the centre proved harder. A depth-first tree search following one wall was foiled in the standard way by a secondary maze. And the centre was surrounded by a double spiral path – an old trap. She worked backwards using Themaux’s algorithm to narrow the possible combinations. But as the outlines of complete solutions continued to fail, she began to appreciate the sly complicated mind behind the puzzle. It occurred to her that this Arshu might have a sense of humour.
She persisted, much as a player used to winning who meets her match and realises she will probably lose determines to make a game of it anyway. As she paced the perimeter she noticed words carved on one of the low square bollards flanking the nearest steps down into the maze.
“You have only moments to live.”
Garrett moved to the next entrance.
“Take your desires for reality.”
Looking across the maze walls, touched lightly by vertigo, memories returned from her first WHO assignment to Gujarat, of a trip to the Pakistan border, seeing the Golden Temple in Amritsar and the quotations written on the walls; and the mathematical beauty of a mosque in Lahore, in the arrangement of flowers engraved in tiles and in the emptiness of the prayer rooms. Outside, there had been a line of shoes there too.
“Don’t just do something, sit there!”
She stopped reading. She found it depressing.
In a neighbouring meadow, a small herd of brindled cows tore at browned grass. She could see the placid sideways movements of their jaws and the green foam from the chewed cud around their lips.
At least Jason was in good health. He was eating well. He looked fit and tanned and happy. She chewed on this consolation for a while.
On a field high up one side of the valley, she could see a half-harvested patch of wheat shining like a flop of greased hair. Jason had pointed it out as they had walked up, and talked about making flour for bread. From the nearest cluster of buildings a cock crow filled the hazy air.
A whole community was living here, dreaming its dreams, but also growing food, building shelters, rearing children, meditating, withdrawing from the world…
It was a waste maybe, this gazing at a gigantic collective navel – but if it was a happy dream, like a childish wish, perhaps it was harmless. After all, Darwin had played a bassoon to his plants and shouted at worms. And not everyone had to think like a scientist. Even she didn’t demand that the dreams of art – a painting or piece of music – be verifiable.
Something Jason had said haunted her. Some of our greatest achievements occur here. It chimed in spirit with the carved quotations.
Did he mean in meditating? Achieving some mental state?
It seemed to her there could be no distinction to any thought cultivated by sitting alone on a floor with nothing at stake, no-one in jeopardy. Perhaps concentration could be practiced in some callisthenic mental gym. But just as no thought was a crime, so too with honour – it was in action, in choices surely, that moral virtue had to be achieved.
She had to get it over with and admit it – she couldn’t pretend, not even for the time together that might grant. Jason’s words were babble to her. Although full of visions and claims to truth, as his voiced thoughts passed through her ears they became papery, insubstantial and fluttering, dry and frail as moth wings, all glory and grails. She tasted dust. As she looked out over the peaceful valley her heart was full of worry.
She remembered her dismay at the trade at Glastonbury, the brisk business done by the homeopathy, dream catcher and faith healing stalls. She could see how, followed step by hopeful step, the logic of those homespun fantasies might lead towards this extraordinary mental construction Jason had described. Pure subjectivity, his words were like transparent bricks in the towers and walls of an invisible castle, built on clouds on top of clouds, floating on air, and all resting on nothing.
What sustained it? Not theory alone. It couldn’t, surely?
Jason’s most devoutly-uttered words returned like an echo. Arshu is pure love, pure thought, pure mind. How he worshipped that man! The perfect father. Did he really think he was a god? Such complete worship must help sustain the illusions.
Suddenly she remembered Christmas dead with a hole in his head, and then a crude drawing of a monkey on a stick, and Prenderville’s warnings
What happens when this collective dream collides with reality?
A stray thought rose, of what such total faith and real power might breed together. A tremor ran though her before she steadied herself. A community this small was perhaps powerful to its members, in their minds, in its locality, but no further.
“A rupee for your thoughts?”
“Oh! Jas – Skyler. How was your meditating?” He looked brighter, visibly refreshed.
“Good. I was chanting the million names of Arshu.”
“Names,” Garrett nodded. “Why?”
His eyes unfocused for a moment. “We are told one of those names is his true name. If I chant through the variations at a thousand names a day, after a thousand days I will have spoken the true name of God.”
“Do you believe–”
“I don't believe. I know,” S
kyler corrected gravely. “Have you solved our maze yet?”
“No.”
“No one does unaided. And only one man has solved it with just the help I gave you: Osei, Head of the House of Healing. Don’t worry, when you are ready I will tell you the Rule.” Skyler faced the centre of the Eye, touched his hands to his forehead and muttered, “Mahatma! Guru-Sri-Kalki Arshu.”
Garrett remembered the last time she had heard those words, in Dr Prenderville’s study. He had translated for her.
“Skyler, I need to ask you something more about Christmas–”
Skyler made an impatient movement with a hand, as though throwing something away. He looked cross.
“It’s likely he was carrying an unusually lethal strain of malaria. It’s very important for me to understand how he became infected. Three other people he was recently in contact with died from it.”
Skyler stared at Garrett. “Malaria?”
“Yes.”
The muscle began to twitch again in Skyler’s cheek. “Three people died?”
“Yes.”
“None of it has anything to do with us here.”
“It’s what Christmas died from too.”
Skyler’s beads began clicking. He glanced past Garrett into the centre of the labyrinth then turned with the look of the scorned. “That’s why you’re here.”
“You invited me, that’s why I came. But I hoped I could talk to you about this case. People’s lives may be at risk. Please would you help me understand what happened?”
“I told you, I didn’t know Christmas, and his death has nothing to do with us here. That’s it.”
“I am only trying–”
“You think we are responsible.” He looked angry.
Garrett became impatient. “Paul Fletcher – Spyder, one of the three first deaths – was also part of this community. Mike Boorman told me you are involved in some important–”
“How do you know about Barindra?” Skyler’s voice was harsh.