Calypso Directive

by Brian Andrews

  Yeah, Bart Bennett, Julie thought, but did not say. “No, unfortunately, I don’t.”

  “All right, then Google it. You’re the search engine guru.”

  She sighed as she turned back to her computer. She entered numerous search criteria, but the one that finally yielded results was “Plague + immunity + Vienna + research.”

  He leaned in for a closer look at the laptop screen.

  “Dr. Roger Johansen, head professor at the Institute of Micro-biology and Genetics, has real potential. His specialty is apparently using genealogy to trace patterns of immunity that develop in populations exposed to pandemics.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with me. How can he help us?”

  “I don’t know if he can, but this is the best option I could find who is local. We need an immunologist and I found one. Plus, I can’t imagine that a guy who studies pandemics and genealogies in Vienna doesn’t know volumes about plague. Vienna was practically the Black Death capital of Europe in the Middle Ages.”

  “Okay, let’s go see Johansen. I like the fact that he works for a university. At least we don’t have to worry about him being a Vyrogen spy!”

  “Yeah,” Julie said, as she wrote down the professor’s office address, phone number, and email address. “You never know who might be on Vyrogen’s payroll.”

  • • •

  “HELLO, WE’RE HERE to see Doctor Johansen,” Julie said to the middle-aged woman sitting behind an old wooden desk covered with piles of journals, books, and papers.

  “You are?” the woman replied, peering over her reading spectacles.

  “My name is Julie, and this is my colleague, Will. We have some microscope images we think the professor will be very interested in seeing.”

  “Doctor Johansen never mentioned this to me. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No, but I assure you this will only take a few minutes of his time.”

  “Doctor Johansen does not see anyone without an appointment. You can leave the images here with me, and if he is interested, he will contact you.”

  Julie looked at Will. He shook his head, no.

  “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

  The woman sighed with annoyance. “Show me your pictures.”

  Julie retrieved two prints of Will’s lymphocytes from her backpack and set them down on the least cluttered area of the desk. The assistant looked carefully over the images.

  She stood abruptly, carrying one print in each hand.

  “Wait here.”

  Julie nodded and looked at Will. She tried to appear serious, but she could not suppress a smile. She looked back at Johansen’s assistant to give her authorization, but the Austrian woman had already disappeared.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Johansen’s assistant returned with a lanky, balding, handsome gentleman of sixty in tow. The assistant handed the images back to Julie.

  The man greeted them in English, flavored with a Scandinavian accent. “Hello. My name is Dr. Roger Johansen. Please, follow me.”

  They followed him down a hallway and into his immense office.

  “Have a seat,” said Professor Johansen, motioning to a group of vacant chairs set haphazardly around a large round table in the middle of his immense office. The remainder of the room was more reminiscent of an architect’s model city than a microbiologist’s office, with books and journals rising from the floor in stacks like skyscrapers. Several paths wove between the towers like city streets, the widest of which led to his partially occluded desk.

  Main Street.

  “This round table is where I hold all of our staff meetings. It is an excellent place for discerning discourse and heated discussion.”

  “Very Arthurian,” Julie said.

  “Indeed, except instead of Excalibur, in my laboratory I have one of the world’s most powerful bright field microscopes.”

  Julie and Will chuckled, politely.

  “Your names again, I’m sorry?”

  “I’m Julie, and this is my colleague, Will.”

  “Julie and Will. Good. You are Americans, no?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Good, I like Americans. Now, let us talk about why you are here, shall we?”

  “We’re here to discuss possibilities,” Will began.

  Johansen laughed, grinning ear to ear. “Possibilities. Marvelous! Did you rehearse that opening?”

  Will smiled, uncertain how to respond.

  “Forgive my sense of humor,” said Johansen, settling down. “Let’s take a look at the images together.”

  “Of course,” Julie said. She retrieved all the pages from her backpack and spread them out across the table.

  Johansen retrieved a pair of eyeglasses from his shirt breast pocket, put them on, and leaned forward to take a closer look.

  “These are lymphocytes, yes?”

  “Yes, except . . .”

  “Except, this one is not a classical lymphocyte,” Johansen interrupted pointing with the tail end of his pen at the image. “What is this cell here?”

  “We don’t know. Which is exactly why we’ve come to see you.”

  Johansen scrutinized the pictures in silence, while they waited patiently. Then he took off his eyeglasses, folded them, and looked up.

  “What else can you tell me? This is interesting, that’s for certain, but I can teach you nothing by looking at naked images. When were they taken? Do you have the blood panel that accompanies these? What was the medical condition of the subject? I can think of a thousand questions to ask you. So please, tell me, what other information can you provide?”

  “These images were obtained using a scanning electron microscope on blood samples taken from a patient who demonstrates an unnatural resistance to infection. In this particular case, the patient had been exposed to live Yersinia pestis bacilli. The sample was drawn seven days after exposure to the pathogen.”

  “Excuse me?” Johansen replied, practically falling out of his chair. “By patient are you referring to a nonhuman primate?”

  “No.”

  “Do you work with UNICEF?”

  “No.”

  “This patient was encountered during fieldwork of yours?”

  “No. Laboratory trial.”

  Johansen’s face hardened. “Young woman, are you playing games with me?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “If what you are telling me is true, I should be reporting you to the police, not trying to help you with some sick experiment.”

  “This is not my work. This is not my patient. I’m an oncologist, not an immunologist. I came to you because this is way out of my league. When I found your biography on the university website, I thought you might have the expertise necessary to help us.”

  Johansen took a deep breath. “What you are telling me is that these images were derived from samples drawn from someone who is not your patient, enrolled in an experiment in a laboratory where you do not work, and in a field of study which you have no expertise?”

  “Yes.”

  Johansen smiled and looked at Will. “What is your role in all of this? Let me guess, you operated the microscope?”

  “No,” Will said, “I’m the patient.”

  The professor looked at Will, then at Julie, and finally back at Will. He slowly and deliberately unfolded his eyeglasses, and put them back on. “Okay. I think I see what is happening here.”

  “What is that?” asked Julie.

  “Either, you are both lying to me with this fantastic story—for what end I do not know—or, you are telling me the truth, and we have a bona fide mystery on our hands. From the look on your faces, I am inclined to believe the latter.”

  “Professor Johansen, we come to you now at considerable risk,” Will began. “We have no one else to turn to. Nowhere else to go. There is something inside of me. Something that makes me different. I want to understand what that something is. We were hoping that with your help, I might finally be able to get some answers.”


  “If you want my help, then you must agree to my conditions.”

  “Which are?” asked Julie.

  “First, we agree to be completely honest with each other at all times, even if the truth is unpleasant. Second, you must agree that I can include the findings in my immunology research.”

  “We will agree to your conditions if you agree to one of ours,” Will said.

  “Which is?”

  “You agree to maintain complete and absolute secrecy about our identities and the nature of this finding.”

  “Without question. I will maintain complete confidentiality at all times. You have my word.”

  “Then you have mine,” Will said. He turned to Julie.

  “And mine,” she added.

  “Good. Where shall we begin?” asked Will.

  “With a history lesson,” Johansen said with a smile. “I came to Vienna almost twenty years ago. It was the logical place for me to locate my laboratory,” Johansen explained.

  “Why is that?” asked Will.

  “Vienna has a rich and fascinating plague history—a dubious distinction in most people’s minds—but for my type of work, it’s perfect. Geographically, Vienna is centrally located in Europe. The Danube River flows east through the center of the city and stretches 2,800 kilometers from Germany to the Black Sea. Through most of its history, Vienna has been a crossroads in Europe.”

  “A crossroads of what?”

  “Trade, migration, war—the inevitable mixing and mashing of different peoples from different lands. All converging here, all carrying germs, making Vienna a crossroads for disease as well.”

  “Resulting in epidemics . . . you study epidemics, right?” Julie asked.

  “Very good. It’s true, Vienna suffered many epidemics over the centuries, the most famous of which was the Great Plague of Vienna in 1679. Death estimates from this massive epidemic range from 75,000 to over 100,000—literally half the population of the city was infected with bubonic plague. What is so fascinating about the 1679 scourge was that it was the result of two converging epidemics—one sweeping east from England and France, and one traveling west from the Ottoman Empire in Turkey. Taken as a whole, the bubonic plague was more than epidemic—it was pandemic—meaning it spread throughout most of the known civilizations of Europe and Asia.”

  “Why is that of interest to your research?” Will asked.

  “Because I am keenly interested in immunity factors associated with disease epidemics. Bubonic plague is the ideal research candidate because it was common practice for afflicted cities to institute quarantines. In some cases, townships quarantined themselves, in entirety, to prevent the spread of the disease to neighboring towns. The death tolls in quarantined sectors were horrific.”

  “I don’t get it. Why do you care about the death tolls in quarantine areas?” asked Julie.

  “Good question. The death toll is only useful in the sense that it gives me an indication of the virulence of the particular strain of plague bacterium. What I really care about are the plague survivors, or more specifically, the survivors’ progeny. For fifteen years I’ve been building a genealogical database tracing bloodlines of plague survivors all across Europe. Five hundred years worth of birth and death records, from over sixty towns, spread across twelve countries.”

  “What do you hope to find?”

  “The descendants of plague survivors, of course,” Johansen quipped. “Not just any descendants. No, I’m looking for descendants who might carry in their DNA specific immunity factors or mutations that allowed their ancestors to survive the plague. Mutations that the living descendants would still carry to this day.”

  “What do you do when you find descendants?” Will asked.

  “We take DNA and blood samples from them . . . with their permission of course. Then we analyze the sample for immunity factors, and we enter the individual’s DNA profile into my genealogical database.”

  “Like a family tree?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Except this is a family tree for DNA. I am proud to say that our lab maintains the world’s largest DNA-derived genealogical database focused on epidemiology. We have over half a million entries and counting. Would you like to become a member?”

  “When you were talking about adding my results to your research, this is what you were referring to?” Will asked.

  “Yes. Except, based on the images you’ve shown me, I think we’ll be doing much more than just plugging your genome into the database. Are you ready to get started?”

  “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Very good. Let’s start with you telling me about your family history and anything you know about your condition.”

  “I am of European descent. English, I think. I am thirty-four years old and an only child. Both my parents have passed away, so I am the only surviving male heir on my father’s side of the family. For as long as I can remember, I have never been sick—that is until I started receiving the injections.”

  “Explain what you mean when you say you’ve ‘never been sick’?”

  “Just that. From the time I was a kid, I don’t remember being sick. My mother used to joke that I repelled germs. My father said that I had my grandpa’s famous Foster constitution.”

  “Foster? Is that your surname?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “That name is familiar to me.”

  “Did you know my grandfather?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I need to check my notes. I have interviewed hundreds of people over the years and made thousands of data entries. You’re both young; your minds are still quick. When you get to be my age, you’ll find it all begins to blur together. That’s why I keep detailed handwritten notes. Then I make the grad students type them into the computer,” Johansen said with a mischievous chuckle.

  Julie laughed. “Grad students love grunt work. Don’t let their bellyaching fool you.” The professor picked up his office phone and rang his assistant. “Can you please pull any files we have on the surname ‘Foster’ from the United Kingdom and bring them to my office please?” He then turned his attention back to Will. “While we wait to see what she finds, let’s talk some more about your experience never getting ill.”

  “When I was a kid, I never got sick. The other kids caught chicken pox, strep throat, the flu, but not me.”

  “Just so I understand, you are saying you have never been ill in your entire life?”

  “Not that I can remember, no. Not until they put me in quarantine and started the injections.”

  “I don’t understand. Who put you in quarantine? What injections?”

  “It’s a long story. You might want to grab a cup of coffee.”

  Johansen leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I have nothing but time. Please, tell me everything.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “THIS IS IT, the Ponte woman’s apartment,” Raimond Zurn said to Udo.

  “Do you want me to kick the door in, brother?” Udo asked, eyes glimmering.

  “Battering rams are for barbarians. I am not a barbarian. I’m an artist. Artists are refined, skilled with instruments of their trade,” Raimond quipped, retrieving a lock picking kit from his bag with gloved hands. Thirty seconds later the door was unlocked. “Quiet, elegant, refined.”

  Udo snorted with feigned irritation. The truth was that over the years he had come to enjoy his brother’s theatrics. Raimond made him laugh. Udo was not a clever man, but being around Raimond made him feel clever by proximity. Besides, Udo knew from experience that the time for barbarism would come soon enough; then he would have his fun.

  Raimond pushed the door open to Julie’s apartment and stepped across threshold. He stood erect and perfectly still, like a wolf surveying a stretch of tundra just before a caribou hunt. The clamorous sound of a television commercial emanated from the kitchen. Raimond turned to Udo, motioning him to enter the apartment. Udo followed and then quietly shut and locked the apartment door. Raimond nodde
d approvingly at his brother, and then turned toward the sound. With a quick, deliberate stride he moved toward the kitchen, withdrawing a white handkerchief laced with chloroform from his pocket en route.

  A tall slender woman with dark hair stood at the sink counter, her back turned, humming a tune and slicing mushrooms on a cutting board.

  Raimond wrapped his left arm around her torso, pinning her arms against her sides. With his right hand, he held the handkerchief over her mouth and nose. She gasped, sucking in air through the chemical-laden cloth. Her body tensed and then fell limp in his arms. The paring knife hit to the floor with a thud. His strike was so efficient she never uttered a sound.

  • • •

  THE WORLD WAS blurry and bright. Time seemed to be passing in slow motion for Isabella as she struggled to regain consciousness. Her eyelids were heavy, and she very much wanted to go back to sleep, but a voice deep in her mind told her she needed to wake up. She was in danger. From what, or from whom, she could not recall, but the last thing she remembered was being deathly afraid.

  “She’s waking up,” Udo announced. He walked over to Raimond who had fallen asleep in a chair and gave him a shake.

  Adrenaline coursed through Isabella’s arteries counteracting the waning effects of the anesthesia. She tried to move her legs; she could not. She struggled to free her arms; the effort was futile. She was securely bound to a chair by duct tape. Her pulse quickened, and she was surprised to hear herself panting as she writhed in the chair.

  “You should save your energy,” Raimond said to Isabella, now standing in front of her. “You’re going to need it.”

  “Who are you? What do you want?” Isabella demanded, trying to sound tough.

  “It doesn’t work that way. I ask you the questions—not the other way around,” he replied, shaking his index finger at her.

  “Ja, we ask the questions, fräulein,” Udo added.

  “In my experience, everything progresses much more smoothly if I explain all the rules to you before we begin. I don’t want any confusion or misunderstanding between us.” Raimond walked around behind Isabella and put his hands on her shoulders. “Quite simply, this is an interrogation. I am the interrogator, and you are the interrogatee. You have information that I need. If you answer all of my questions truthfully, then you will live and this will all be over quite swiftly and painlessly. If you do not, then the interrogation will be quite long and painful. Do you understand the rules?”