The Rationing

by Charles Wheelan

  “The dust mite spreads Capellaviridae,” the NIH Director interrupted.

  “Exactly,” I said. “And the dust mite also protects against Capellaviridae turning virulent. That’s what makes this situation so biologically interesting.” We had developed more and more analogies to explain this “hostage” relationship. I offered up one of them: “A guy walks into a shopping mall with a bomb. He says, ‘I have a code that will prevent the bomb from detonating as long as I enter it every fifteen minutes. I will be perfectly happy to do that as long as you bring me food.’ Obviously if anything happens to the guy—”

  “Really, it would be many, many guys with many bombs,” Giscard said.

  “Yes, okay,” I agreed. “But the point is that everybody needs this guy—all of these guys—to stay alive. If anything happens to them, the whole place goes boom.”

  “I already understand this,” the Director said.

  “Of course you do,” Giscard said with what felt like excessive deference. Once again I was feeling the urge to harm him.

  “Here’s the problem,” the biochemist explained. “That’s not how antibodies work—”

  “They defuse the bomb,” Giscard interrupted. “The antibody team comes to the shopping place, they defuse the bomb, and then there is no need—”

  “Enough with the bomb analogy,” the Director snapped. Various officials in the White House had been phoning her repeatedly for updates on the virus front. At one point she had angrily told the Chief of Staff, “Nothing since you called fifteen minutes ago.” I suspect the President was leaning on all the staff for some glimmer of hope that science might ward off the impending crisis.

  I continued with our explanation to the Director: “Our whole theory revolves around the idea that the dust mite has somehow created a strategy to make itself valuable to humans—presumably by preventing Capellaviridae from turning virulent.”

  “That’s what the data show,” Tie Guy said. “When the dust mite gets wiped out—”

  “Yes, I know what the data show,” the Director said sharply. And then, more calmly, she summarized our dilemma more succinctly than we had ourselves: “The easiest way for the dust mite to protect against Capellaviridae turning virulent would be to introduce an antibody into the human host. But if that were the case, then there is no ongoing advantage to the humans from protecting the dust mite.”

  “Exactly,” Giscard said, with what I felt to be a hint of surprise that the Director had so easily grasped the situation.

  There was a brief silence as the Director reflected on what we had told her. “Well, I trust you’ll figure it out,” she said brusquely. With that, she turned and left the conference room. Giscard made a rude comment about female scientists and then retreated to his computer at the far end of the conference table. It never dawned on us that he was sharing our conversations with some of his French colleagues, in violation of our explicit orders. The pathetic irony is that he received credit for many of the ideas that emanated from our working group, not because he provided the intellectual spark for those breakthroughs (though that was occasionally the case) but because he disregarded our most important security protocols and wrote about them first.

  75.

  SHORTLY BEFORE NOON IN DELHI, JUST ABOUT THE TIME AIR Force One entered American airspace, the U.S. Ambassador walked discreetly out the back of the Embassy compound and hailed a taxi. He normally traveled in an armored Cadillac with a security detail, but that entourage was inimical to what he was trying to do: somehow persuade the Indian Prime Minister that he would be fortunate to have the United States accept his offer of lifesaving Dormigen. “That just doesn’t make any sense,” the Ambassador complained as the Strategist gave him his final marching orders. “We have no leverage here. The Indian PM is perfectly aware of what’s happening in the United States. People are going to die. And you expect me to somehow persuade him that we are doing him a favor by letting him give us Dormigen?”

  “No,” the Strategist said patiently. “Forget about the Dormigen. That’s not relevant here.”

  “Of course it’s not,” the Ambassador said facetiously.

  “Really, it’s not. What’s important is the publicity around the donation. We have to make him want that recognition more than he thinks we want the Dormigen.”

  “That’s a tall order,” the Ambassador said.

  “He’s got an election coming up. There are corruption investigations coming at him from every direction. Now he’s got an opportunity to transform India’s place in the world, to join the elite club of the world’s most important democracies—”

  “Yes, I like that language,” the Ambassador offered.

  “Who was that douchebag from New Mexico when you were in the Senate?” the Strategist asked.

  “Pardon?” the Ambassador asked.

  “The senator from New Mexico. Remember, ‘Never get between a television camera and’—what was his name?”

  “Luvardnik,” the Ambassador answered.

  “Yes. Remember how easy that guy was to deal with? He had no ideological convictions whatsoever. As long as you could assure him some political benefit, he was with you.”

  “I remember. I’m not sure the Indian PM is as bad as that,” the Ambassador said.

  “No, but he certainly doesn’t care whether eighty-five-year-olds in the U.S. die because they can’t get Dormigen,” the Strategist pointed out. “This is all about him, so make him a hero in India.”

  “Luvardnik really was an asshole, wasn’t he?” the Ambassador reflected.

  “You know the drill,” the Strategist said.

  “Twelve years in the Senate did teach me a few things.”

  “Then go get us some Dormigen.” And then the strategist added, “And don’t pay the bill.”

  “We’re meeting at a pizza parlor,” the Ambassador pointed out.

  “I don’t care if it’s three dollars. You’re doing him a favor, so he pays the bill. That’s really important.”

  “Okay, maybe I’ll order dessert,” the Ambassador said jokingly.

  “Even better,” the Strategist answered, not joking at all.

  The California Pizza Kitchen was deep in the New India Mall, past every manner of Western shop and up an escalator that passed over a garish fountain in which an elephant was shooting water from its trunk. The mall was busy with shoppers—an occasional tourist but mostly locals seeking out a clean, orderly place to shop for the same reason Americans do. The Ambassador had never been to the mall before, though the head of the embassy’s Economic Section often used it as an example of India’s growing middle class. The Ambassador made his way to the food court before recognizing that the restaurants were scattered elsewhere. By the time he reached the California Pizza Kitchen, he was several minutes late. The Ambassador recognized Sumer Patel, one of the Prime Minister’s trusted lieutenants (albeit with an ambiguous official portfolio), sitting at a table near the door looking somewhat impatient. The Strategist would be proud of him for keeping Patel waiting, the Ambassador thought, even if it was an accident. The Ambassador and Patel had met several times before; they reintroduced themselves and exchanged pleasantries. Eventually Patel broached the substance of the meeting: “I watched the President’s speech.”

  “We’ve got ourselves in a bit of a pickle,” the Ambassador said. Patel had attended university in the U.S. and was familiar with the idioms and slang.

  “The Prime Minister feels this may be an opportunity to take the U.S.-India relationship to a new level,” Patel said.

  “How so?” the Ambassador asked solicitously.

  “The Prime Minister is now confident we will have excess Dormigen over the next week.”

  The Ambassador raised an eyebrow, suggesting surprise and interest. “On what scale?”

  “Perhaps enough to close your gap.”

  “There are a lot of lives at stake,” the Ambassador said. At that moment, a male waiter approached the table to take drink orders. Patel waved him
away angrily, telling him in Hindi to come back later.

  “The Prime Minister recognizes the gravity of what is happening,” Patel said.

  The Ambassador replied, “As you may or may not know, we made an overture earlier and it was not well received. If I recall correctly—”

  Patel waved his hand dismissively. “The circumstances have changed.”

  “They have,” the Ambassador agreed. “With China, in particular.”

  “That was a terrible embarrassment,” Patel said, shaking his head.

  “An embarrassment?” the Ambassador asked with concern. “An embarrassment for . . .”

  “China,” Patel said emphatically. The waiter returned, once again drawing an angry look from Patel.

  “Maybe we should just order,” the Ambassador said.

  “I’ll have a Coke Zero and a pizza,” Patel said sharply.

  “Sir, we have many kinds of pizza,” the waiter replied.

  “Veggie.”

  “Yes, sir, one veggie pizza,” the waiter said.

  “I’ll have the same,” the Ambassador said.

  “With Coke Zero?” the waiter asked.

  “Yes,” the Ambassador said. The waiter acknowledged the order with a slight nod of his head. As he walked away, the Ambassador continued to Patel, “Please tell the Prime Minister that we are prepared to make some serious gestures to express our gratitude—to take our bilateral relationship to a new level, as you say.” The Ambassador listed several diplomatic issues the Americans and Indians had been wrangling over in recent years: cooperation on India’s civil nuclear program; more aggressive intelligence-sharing regarding Pakistan; raising the U.S. cap on H-1B visas for skilled workers. Patel nodded in approval as the Ambassador ticked off the list, all of which happened to be initiatives he had been pushing the State Department and the White House to act on anyway. “We can create a political win here for the Prime Minister,” the Ambassador assured Patel.

  “Yes, these are significant gestures,” Patel agreed. “The White House has signed off on all of this?”

  “Of course,” the Ambassador assured him. There was a brief silence as Patel absorbed the offer on the table. The Ambassador continued, “One thing to appreciate here is that China is trying to exploit our crisis in the U.S. The things they are asking for would make us weaker. It’s predatory. The things you and I are discussing here, on the other hand, are measures that would strengthen the U.S.-India relationship. The world’s two most important democracies, working together.”

  “Yes, of course,” Patel agreed. Silence settled over the table as Patel contemplated the situation. The Ambassador had a strong sense of what direction the conversation would likely turn. They were approaching the money moment. The next minute or so would likely determine whether the Strategist would lose a testicle or not. The waiter appeared with drinks, giving Patel more time to cogitate on the situation. As the waiter walked out of earshot, Patel said, “The world’s two most important democracies, but India is very much the junior partner.”

  “India has three times the population of the United States,” the Ambassador replied.

  “Exactly, and yet . . .” Patel let the dissatisfaction with the relationship just kind of hang there.

  “The President would be very happy to publicly thank the Prime Minister and the country for their generosity,” the Ambassador said.

  “Yes?” Patel replied, his face brightening.

  The Ambassador continued: “We will have to work on the scheduling, but the PM could do a state visit, perhaps at the beginning of next year. We could use the visit as an opportunity to announce all these agreements.”

  Patel’s excitement dissipated immediately. The pizzas arrived. “May I get you anything else?” the waiter asked in English with a pleasant, lilting accent. Patel told him brusquely in Hindi to go away and the two men ate in silence.

  Eventually Patel asked, “May I speak candidly?”

  “Of course.”

  “The Prime Minister has an election coming up.”

  “His party is in a spot of political trouble,” the Ambassador said, “if I may speak candidly.”

  “The Prime Minister is hoping for something . . .”

  “With more immediate political payoff,” the Ambassador said, making explicit what Patel could not bring himself to say. Patel grimaced at the coarseness of the statement but did not disagree. The Ambassador continued with just a hint of mock outrage, “A lot of people are going to die in the United States.”

  “And we would like to prevent that,” Patel assured him. “That is why I am here. The Prime Minister is just hoping we can create a win for everyone.”

  “The polls I’ve seen suggest that public opinion in your country is strongly in favor of offering Dormigen to the United States,” the Ambassador pointed out.

  “Yes!” Patel agreed. “That’s exactly what we would like to leverage. Can we make everyone a winner here?”

  “What does the Prime Minister have in mind?” the Ambassador asked skeptically. He felt a warm glow of inner satisfaction. He had done it. He had taken the conversation in the direction it needed to go. He had arrived at the California Pizza Kitchen to ask for a donation of a lifesaving drug. And now, with the pizzas barely having arrived, Patel was beginning to look like the supplicant.

  “We’re being entirely candid here?” Patel asked earnestly.

  “Of course,” the Ambassador assured him.

  “Something that puts him on equal footing with the President,” Patel said. “Something that makes India look like an equal partner.”

  “We can make that happen,” the Ambassador replied, though there was a coolness in his tone that suggested the opposite. “Obviously the President has some political sensitivities of his own.”

  “He does not want a poor country coming to the rescue,” Patel offered.

  “No, no,” the Ambassador assured Patel in a tone that suggested, “Yes, yes.” The Ambassador explained, “The President is very sensitive to charges that he left the country vulnerable—that he’s responsible for this situation. He’s trying to steer a delicate political path here.”

  “I can understand that,” Patel said.

  “Yes, well, if there is a very public display in which India delivers the Dormigen that the U.S. somehow could not produce . . .”

  Patel finished the thought, his voice laced with indignation: “The President must be horribly incompetent if India is coming to the rescue.”

  The Ambassador said, “I’m just the messenger here. I think it’s pathetic that thousands of people could die because of his political vanity.”

  “I understand,” Patel said, his tone warming noticeably. “Of course, the President’s not the only one with political vanity!” They exchanged a knowing laugh at the expense of their political overlords. The waiter approached the table once again. Neither man had eaten more than a few bites.

  “The food is okay?” the waiter asked with concern.

  “Fine, fine,” the Ambassador said. “Can I take mine in a box?”

  “I would like a box as well,” Patel said.

  “I would like something sweet, however,” the Ambassador said. “Do you have ice cream?” he asked the waiter.

  “Of course, sir. Chocolate, vanilla, and mango.”

  “I’ll have mango!” the Ambassador exclaimed. “I love mango ice cream. Are the mangos in season?”

  “I believe so,” Patel answered. “I’ll have the same.”

  As the waiter walked away, the Ambassador continued, “Why don’t you consult with the Prime Minister. Ask him what he feels he needs: a phone call with the President, maybe a public ceremony in which the Indian Ambassador comes to the White House for formal recognition . . . I’m just thinking out loud here. I will advocate strenuously for whatever the Prime Minister proposes because there is absolutely no reason politics should get in the way of saving lives. But, please, make the PM aware that the White House is going to push back against anythi
ng the President feels makes him or the country look like a supplicant.”

  “Well put. I understand completely,” Patel replied.

  The waiter returned with the ice cream. “Will there be anything else?” he asked.

  “Just the check,” the Ambassador answered.

  As the waiter searched for the check in his small notepad, Patel produced a credit card. “Please, allow me,” he said.

  “Thank you,” the Ambassador said. He leaned closer to Patel: “I think we can make this happen.”

  “I hope so,” Patel replied. “I hope so.”

  76.

  THE PRESSURE HAD BEEN BRIEFLY REDIRECTED FROM OUR team at the NIH to the biochemists, as we awaited their findings on the chemical structures of the virulent and indolent forms of the Capellaviridae virus. I awoke early and shared an awkward breakfast with Ellen. We watched television and said little to one another. I switched from channel to channel, eager to see how the Dormigen story was being covered. The Saudi Arabia hostage situation was the top story across channels. I imagined a crisis team like ours working in different rooms at the White House with the President yelling at them to make sure that no hostages were killed. The media seemed to have the bandwidth for one crisis at a time, so the Dormigen story had been bumped off the front page, literally in some cases, figuratively elsewhere. Most of the cable news programs were still using their “Dormigen Countdown” graphics. The White House had gained some traction in shaping the story. Our local morning program in D.C. did a story on a nearby hospital that was preparing measures to provide alternative care for patients who would be ineligible to receive Dormigen. That story, and most others, used our phrase “similar to a serious case of the flu” multiple times. But then they would cut almost immediately to Seattle, where Cecelia Dodds remained in an induced coma.

  On the political side, there was a lot of waiting going on. The President had arrived back in Washington during the night. The Chief of Staff briefed him and others on what they were now referring to as “the California Pizza Kitchen Summit.” The next move would have to come from the Indian Prime Minister’s office. On the science side, we were also waiting. The NIH Director canceled our morning briefing, as there was little to discuss until we received more information from the biochemists. Meanwhile, Giscard had invited Jenna for breakfast, which she had accepted, much to my horror. So I was waiting for breakfast to be over, too.