by John Case
Fitch turned to the doctor. ‘You know what this guy’s talking about? Any of this ring a bell for you?’
Karalekis rolled his eyes. ‘It could be anything.’
Fitch and Inoue stared at him. Finally, Fitch said, ‘No. It couldn’t be “anything.” It couldn’t be the common cold, for instance. It couldn’t be hemorrhoids.’
Karalekis chuckled. ‘That’s not what I meant. I meant that I don’t know how reliable an observer Mr. Kang is. I don’t know how much training he’s had or –’
Wasserman leaned forward. ‘Could we . . . please? I don’t see what this has got to do with the North Korean Army destroying a village. So some people were sick –’
‘Apparently, they were very sick.’
‘So what?’
Inoue held a finger in the air and waggled it from side to side. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said, and turned a couple of pages. ‘It says here, ‘They wanted to’ . . . the nearest word in English would be “cauterize.” They wanted to cauterize the place.’
‘And how would Mr. Kang know what the army’s motive was? Did they tell him?’ Wasserman asked.
Inoue looked abashed. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘You’re right. It’s just his guess. But he says he was losing one out of three, one out of four, patients, when a doctor came from Pyongyang. And it was right after that, a week or so later, that the town was . . . destroyed.’
‘So he figures they “cauterized” it.’
Inoue nodded. ‘Like a wound.’
‘What if they weren’t trying to control the disease?’ Wasserman asked. ‘What if they were just trying to hide it?’
‘Why would they want to hide it?’ Fitch asked.
‘Because the economy’s a wreck, the factories are shut, the people are starving, nothing works,’ Wasserman replied. ‘The last thing they need is more bad publicity.’
‘And you think they’d kill a hundred people for that?’
Wasserman thought about it. Finally, she said, ‘Sure.’
Karalekis turned to Fitch, who let out an exasperated sigh: ‘What about the doctor,’ Karalekis asked, ‘the one from Pyongyang? What’d he say about the epidemic?’
‘He said –’ Fitch glanced at Wasserman and, seeing the skeptical look on her face, corrected himself. ‘Excuse me. We don’t know what the doctor said. But according to Mr. Kang, the doctor blamed the whole thing on a, uh . . . a Spanish woman.’
Wasserman guffawed, and Fitch ground his teeth together.
‘Hey! I’m telling you what the guy said!’
The room became quiet. Voorhis blew his nose and Karalekis coughed, but no one knew what to say. Finally, Inoue broke the silence. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘it’s not.’
Fitch looked perplexed and annoyed, all at once. ‘What’s not?’
‘It’s not what he said.’ Inoue tapped the transcript in front of him. ‘He didn’t say “a Spanish woman.” He said “the Spanish lady.” He said “the doctor blamed it all on the Spanish lady.”’
‘Oh, well – in that case – excuse me,’ Fitch said.
Inoue made a hapless gesture, as if to explain that he was only trying to help, when he suddenly realized that Karalekis was staring at him. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘What’d you say – exactly?’
Inoue looked embarrassed. ‘You mean, about the transcript?’
Karalekis nodded.
‘Well, it was just a detail, but . . . according to Mr. Kang, the doctor said . . .’ He looked at the debriefing page. ‘“The doctor blamed it all on the Spanish lady.”’
‘“The Spanish lady,”’ Karalekis repeated.
‘Yes. That’s what it says he said.’
‘Not – “a Spanish woman.”’
Inoue shook his head. ‘No.’
Karalekis held the translator’s eyes for a long moment. Then he swallowed hard and turned to Fitch. ‘I think you better call Atlanta,’ he said.
‘“Atlanta”?’ What’s “Atlanta”?’ Fitch asked.
‘CDC,’ Karalekis said. ‘If your guy’s right, this thing could kill more people than the Second World War.’
3
IN THE WEEKS that followed, the Tasi-ko Working Group was anointed with its own cryptonym (BLINDSIDE) and ‘augmented’ by two members.
The first was Dr. Irving Epstein, an influenza specialist with the National Institutes of Health (NIH). The second was Neal Gleason, a lanky FBI agent with liaison responsibilities to the CIA.
To Fitch, Gleason’s appointment rankled as much as Epstein’s was welcome, but there was nothing he could do about the G-man’s presence. Gleason’s job was to work with the Agency on matters relating to chemical and biological weapons. This was (in theory, at least) an extension of the Bureau’s mission to protect the country against acts of domestic terrorism. In reality (or, at least, in Fitch’s opinion), Gleason’s inclusion was another example of the Bureau’s relentless efforts to expand its authority in the aftermath of the cold war.
Not that Gleason was particularly interested in Fitch’s little group. He had bigger fish to fry, shuttling twice a month between Washington and Amman, where he met regularly with American monitors assigned to the United Nations inspection teams in nearby Iraq. Predictably, this left him in a near permanent state of jet lag – a condition that he hid behind a wall of nonchalance and Maui Jim sunglasses.
For the FBI agent the Tasi-ko Working Group was only a sideline, one of a dozen groups whose deliberations he ‘audited’ (when he was not on his way to one departure lounge or another). ‘Just think of me as a fly on the wall,’ he told Fitch ‘I won’t make a peep.’ And, for the most part, he didn’t.
Epstein was another kettle of fish entirely. A short, fat, talkative man in his early sixties, he affected the raiment of a New Dealer, replete with bow tie, suspenders, and a seersucker suit. Secretly thrilled to be part of ‘the secret world,’ (if only on loan), he delighted in explaining the nuances of influenza in general, and the Spanish flu in particular. ‘Spanish lady,’ he noted, was a nickname for the malady, derived from its particularly heavy toll in Spain. Cartoons of the era often showed a slinky woman in a come hither posture – whose lace mantilla hid a grinning skull.
Armed with maps of Asia and a laser pointer, the epidemiologist was delighted to explain that influenza is a fragile virus that exists in a state of constant mutation. Depending upon its antigenic makeup –
‘Its what?’ The voice was Fitch’s, but the question belonged to everyone – or almost everyone.
‘He’s talking about the protein coat,’ Karalekis explained. ‘The surface characteristics of the virus.’
Fitch grunted.
‘Depending on its protein coat,’ Epstein continued, ‘the virus is classified as one of three general types: H-1, H-2, and H-3. There are others, but those are the biggies.’
Fitch’s brow furrowed – he didn’t like being lectured to – but Janine Wasserman restrained him with a soft touch on his arm.
‘Within each of these types,’ Epstein went on, ‘you have what amounts to an infinite number of strains –’
‘So when we talk about the flu,’ Voorhis interjected, ‘we’re actually talking about a class of diseases.’
Epstein shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t put it that way, but you can, if you want. The important thing is, we have to produce a new vaccine each year because, as the virus mutates, last year’s pandemic strain gives way to its successor.’
Epstein bathed his audience in a benign smile, but Fitch wasn’t having any of it. ‘Doc, you keep using words –’
‘He means the dominant strain, worldwide,’ Karalekis said.
‘Like an epidemic,’ Voorhis suggested.
Epstein shook his head. ‘No, a pandemic is not “like an epidemic.” A “pandemic” is global. An “epidemic” – like the one in Tasi-ko – is a localized outbreak.’
‘Which would make it – strictly – a North Korean problem,’ Gleason pointed out.
Karalekis furrowed his brow.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it would . . . unless –’
‘Unless it spreads,’ Epstein concluded. For a moment the two doctors basked in one another’s smiles.
Voorhis shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘But some epidemics are worse than others, right? Depending on the . . . strain.’
‘Exactly,’ Epstein replied. ‘Some strains are a lot more virulent than others, and sometimes they attack different populations. The Spanish flu went after the young. Children. Kids. People under thirty.’
‘Why was that?’ Wasserman asked.
Epstein shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Fitch frowned, and Karalekis turned to him. ‘No one does,’ he said.
‘Why not?’ Fitch asked.
Karalekis shrugged. ‘Because no one’s ever studied it.’
‘The flu?’ Fitch asked.
‘No. We’re talking about this particular virus,’ Epstein said. ‘No one’s ever seen it under a microscope.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because viruses are submicroscopic. You need an electron microscope to see them, and they didn’t invent it until ’thirty-seven, which was – what? – almost twenty years after the disease had come and gone.’
‘So no one’s ever really seen it?’ Fitch asked.
Karalekis nodded.
‘Including the Koreans?’ Fitch added.
Karalekis and Epstein looked at one another. After a moment, Epstein said, ‘Yes . . . including the North Koreans.’
‘Which means,’ Fitch went on, ‘that the guy from Pyongyang –’
‘The doctor,’ Wasserman supplied.
‘Whatever. It means the guy was guessing – when he said it was ‘the Spanish Lady,’ he was guessing.’
‘Well . . .’ Karalekis thought about it.
‘He had to be,’ Fitch insisted. ‘You just said –’
Epstein shook his head. ‘It’s not as simple as that.’
Fitch looked puzzled. ‘Why not?’
‘Because he saw patients. He treated symptoms. He observed the course of the disease.’
‘And on that basis,’ Karalekis said, concurring, ‘he compared it to the Spanish flu.’
No one said anything for a long moment, then Janine Wasserman spoke. ‘Not really,’ she said. ‘He didn’t compare it to anything. He said it was the Spanish flu. Period.’
Voorhis rolled his eyes. ‘According to the translator . . . according to the doctor. According to the defector.’ He paused and looked around the room. ‘Is it just me, or –’
Neal Gleason snorted derisively, then glanced at his watch and scraped back his chair. Getting to his feet with a wince of phony remorse, he announced, ‘This is all very interesting, but I’ve got a two o’clock at the Navy Yard, so, uh . . . keep me posted, okay?’ And with that he grabbed his coat and left the room.
Wasserman seemed not to notice. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on the conference table and tapped her fingertips together. Once, twice. Three times. Then she turned to Karalekis with a frown and said, ‘The thing I’m wondering about, George, is . . . well, I guess what all of us are wondering about: the way the Koreans reacted.’
‘Of course.’
‘Because, unless I’m mistaken, you can’t stop an influenza epidemic by killing the people who have the illness –’
‘Why not?’ Voorhis asked.
‘Because,’ Epstein replied.
‘There’s more than a single vector,’ Karalekis explained.
‘Exactly.’
Voorhis looked from one physician to another, as if he were following a tennis match. Finally, he asked, ‘What’s “a vector”?’
‘A means of transmission,’ Epstein said.
‘Like what?’ Fitch asked.
‘People. Rodents. Ducks,’ Karalekis replied. ‘With influenza, wild ducks are huge,’ he said, warming to the theme.
‘The migration of waterfowl –’ Epstein began.
‘It’s the name of the game,’ Karalekis said.
‘The herald wave – which is the first wave of people afflicted by a new strain – almost always begins in China,’ Epstein added.
‘Why is that?’ Voorhis asked.
‘They’ve got the waterfowl, they’ve got the population densities you need to get the wave started –’
‘There are lots of reasons,’ Karalekis remarked, ‘but it’s lucky for us because it takes about a year for a new strain to hit the States. Which gives us time to make a vaccine and get it distributed.’
Janine Wasserman cleared her throat. ‘If we could just . . . stay on the point . . . we were talking about the Koreans’ reaction. And how illogical it was.’ For a moment the doctors’ faces fell: they’d been enjoying their lecture, or repartee, or whatever it was. ‘And I was thinking,’ Wasserman went on, ‘about their certainty – or their apparent certainty – that it was the Spanish flu – rather than something “like” it.’
Epstein and Karalekis opened their mouths, but Fitch cut them off with the slightest gesture of his right hand.
‘And it occurred to me,’ Wasserman went on, ‘that the North Koreans must have known that killing people in Tasi-ko would be very unlikely to affect an outbreak of this kind. Because the disease would continue to spread in other ways.’
The doctors glanced at one another. Finally, Epstein conceded the point with a tilt of his head.
‘So what they did was entirely irrational unless . . . they somehow knew . . . that there were no other vectors for this particular outbreak. That it was somehow . . . a one-off proposition. A fluke.’
Karalekis pursed his lips and made a sucking sound. ‘Mmmm,’ he said. ‘I see your point.’
Epstein frowned, genuinely baffled. For a moment he looked like a little boy whose mother had dressed him in his father’s clothes. Turning from Wasserman to Karalekis, he asked, ‘What point?’
Karalekis kept his eyes on the table in front of him. ‘Ms. Wasserman is suggesting that an accident may have occurred, and that what happened at Tasi-ko was . . . an attempt to contain that accident.’
‘You mean, a laboratory accident?’ Epstein asked.
Karalekis looked up. ‘Exactly. Otherwise –’
‘They’d have known there was nothing they could do about the outbreak,’ Fitch said, finishing the sentence for him. ‘They’d have sucked it up. They’d have had to.’
A worried look came over Epstein. ‘But is that realistic? I mean, do we know if the North Koreans are experimenting with this sort of thing?’
Karalekis huffed. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We do know. They’ve got one of the most intensive bioweaponeering programs in the world. Now, having said that, we don’t have inspection teams in the country, so I can’t tell you where all the labs are. But we know they’ve got a program – and for a country like North Korea, it makes sense.’
‘Why do you say that?’ Epstein asked.
‘Because,’ Karalekis said, ‘biological weapons are the most cost-effective weapons in the world. Look at it this way: a nuclear weapons program costs a couple of hundred million – just for starters. But you can make anthrax, cholera, and typhoid in a garage – using home brewery equipment. And you don’t need missiles to deliver it: an off-the-shelf aerosolizer works fine.’
‘I’ll give Dr. Epstein a book about it,’ Fitch said impatiently. ‘What I want to know is, if there’s a weapons lab near Tasi-ko, how would something like this get out?’
Karalekis shrugged. ‘Accident. Leaky pipe. It doesn’t happen a lot, but it happens.’
‘Third world,’ Voorhis remarked. ‘I’ll bet it happens all the time.’
‘Of course,’ Karalekis said, ‘if it was an accident . . . and if it was the Spanish flu . . .’
‘Yeah?’ Fitch asked.
‘Well it raises rather a large question, doesn’t it?’
Epstein snorted. ‘I’ll say!’
Fitch looked from one doctor to the other. ‘And what question is that?’
Karalekis rais
ed his eyebrows. ‘Well . . . I mean, where’d they get it?’
The question hung in the air for a long while. Finally, Voorhis chuckled. ‘You’re putting us on, right?’
‘What do you mean?’ Karalekis asked.
‘You’re pulling our legs.’
It was Karalekis’s turn to look puzzled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m not. Why would you think that?’
‘Well, because . . .’ Voorhis broke into a broad grin. ‘It’s the flu, for chrissake! Everybody gets it. It’s not Ebola. It’s not Q fever! Why would the Koreans play around with something like influenza, when they’ve got – what? Anthrax! Sarin! There must be a million things more dangerous.’
Epstein and Karalekis looked at one another. After a moment Epstein turned back to Voorhis. ‘I don’t think you quite understand,’ he said. ‘The mortality rate of the Spanish flu –’
Voorhis looked skeptical. ‘I know what you’re saying. It’s a monster. But it’s not poisonous. You wouldn’t use it to attack an army.’
‘That’s true,’ Karalekis remarked. ‘You probably wouldn’t. But if your intention was to debilitate the enemy – to attack the civilian population in a systemic way – the Spanish Lady would be a very effective instrument.’
Epstein picked up the theme. ‘I was just going over the numbers last week,’ he said. ‘Look at New York: they’ve got fifty-six 911 receiving hospitals – eight thousand beds. That’s it! Or almost it: they’ve also got a couple of decon vans – two – each of which can handle – what? Maybe three people an hour.’ He paused. ‘A biological attack on New York, or any city, would be . . . unrecoverable.’
‘The other thing about the flu, of course, is that it’s self-sustaining,’ Karalekis said. ‘Once you get it started, there’s a kind of chain reaction that takes place: the virus, or bacterium, produces more and more of itself. So it’s like a fusion reactor. But in another way, it’s like a neutron bomb, because it doesn’t do any damage to the enemy’s infrastructure. It kills the people, and leaves the buildings intact.’
Voorhis grunted. ‘So just how deadly is this stuff?’
‘Well,’ Karalekis replied, ‘if you had the right bug . . . theoretically, you could start a kind of biological crown fire that would kill everyone on the planet – unless they’d been immunized.’