by Alan Gold
“Debra,” he said gently, “you can phone whomsoever you like, but you’re not going to Boston and if you try to board a flight, I’ll arrest you.”
The elevator doors opened and the two other passengers walked out with huge grins on their faces, anxious for their watercooler moment when they could tell their colleagues what they’d overheard. Brett and Debra stepped into the building’s foyer, he biting back a smile, she fuming with impotence. And if she continued to sing on the familiar song sheet, she’d soon start negotiating. Which is precisely what happened next.
“Why are you doing this, Brett? Playing the hairy-chested he-man? You know I have to travel. You know you can’t stop me. So why?”
“Debra, at the White House, I said you have to tell me of your intention to travel to destinations. We have to protect you and ensure that when you land or arrive, you’re in no danger. That means while you’re still on the plane, I have to get my colleagues in Boston to be ready to meet you, escort you through the terminal and into a secure vehicle, while their colleagues are sanitizing the place you’re traveling to so that they can ensure it’s a safe environment. That’s all I’m asking.”
She remained silent as they walked to the second elevator that would take them down to the underground parking lot.
Softly, she said, “But you know I’ve only just arranged . . .”
“Which is why I’ll allow you to go to Boston, on the condition that you take a later flight to give my guys time to do their jobs. Okay?”
She turned and looked at him in surprise. “You’ll allow me?”
“Yes. Debra, you have to understand something. While you’re under presidential orders for reasons of national security, I’m the one who makes decisions about where you go and what you do. You might not like it, but until this emergency is downgraded or called off, you are under a legal obligation to follow my orders. Now I don’t ever want to get into the position, like just now, of pushing my weight around, but if I consider that something might endanger you, then I will take every step to ensure that you remain safe and well. I’m here to keep you alive, Debra, even if it means my own death. I’m not here to show you how hairy-chested I am. Please let me do my job so you can do yours and save lives.”
They reached the armor-plated bulletproof car, and he asked her to stand well back while he examined the underside for bombs. She watched him on all fours, making himself dirty to ensure her safety. She realized that she’d gone too far and that he was, in reality, just protecting her against a very real threat.
And she wondered whether or not he did have a hairy chest.
***
The following morning, after all the safety checks had been made, Debra stood in front of the viewing panel of the electron microscope. She’d never before entered the Harvard University’s School of Public Health and was amazed at the stunning array of ultra-modern equipment that the school used. Debra had landed at Boston’s Logan Airport aboard a specially chartered flight just an hour before to be taken by a security convoy to Huntington Avenue where the school was located. Students along the way had turned in surprise as the convoy roared past, lights flashing. Traffic lights turned to green so the convoy wasn’t halted, enabling her to get directly to her meeting with the chair of the Department of Virology.
And now she looked in surprise at the clump of chemicals in the aperture. “That’s it?” she asked.
Professor Avi Mizrachi nodded and in his heavy Israeli accent said, “Dat’s one of dem. Der are six others. We were concentrating on the morphology of the Hendra virus, but we also took blood and tissue samples from other bats in other locations where outbreak develop. Indonesia, Venezuela, London, Australia, and the others.”
She stared at the color-enhanced image of the virus. Avi knew that Debra was as much of an expert on viruses as was he and that he didn’t need to explain that in order to show the virus, he’d had to increase the contrast between it and the background. He’d used electron-dense stains to bring out its shape. His favorite, and the one that he’d used on all the virus samples he’d been sent, was a tungsten stain that scattered the electrons from his microscope’s gun and the staining showed the detail of the virus to magical effect.
“So what’s its structure?” she asked.
“Dey all different. Dat’s astounding thing. The one from Australia, the Hendra virus, de von dat got passed to dogs, it’s a mutational variant of the Paramyxoviridae family. Its morphology is different, though, in the protein casing. The entire virus is two hundred twenty nanometers long and one hundred twenty wide. Fairly average. But we’re studying why so virulent. The other viruses are helical or are icosahedral. Seriously mixed bunch. To be honest, Debra, if you hadn’t told me that they cause roughly same type symptoms, I say they attacked different organisms—maybe plants, maybe lower animals, maybe cause colds or sores. But such different viruses with such distinct shapes; to say they responsible for these hideous outbreaks . . . surprising.”
“So finding a treatment, an antiviral drug common to all these infections, is going to be difficult,” she said, walking from one screen to another to see what her enemy looked like.
Professor Mizrachi didn’t answer. His silence was eloquent testimony to the uphill battle she was facing. “You have how many laboratories working on antivirals?” he asked.
“None. Well, just us, really.”
“None? This cannot you do on your own,” he said in tortured English. “This could be a pandemic. This worse could be than Spanish flu after First World War. Fifty million killed. Are you meshuggah?”
By now, a number of his colleagues had joined him and were listening to the conversation intently. They all knew of Debra, both personally having met at conferences or by her reputation in the Atlanta Center for Disease Control. And they knew her more recently by her television appearances standing beside some of the most powerful people on earth.
“Debra, you have to let researchers at Harvard work on antiviral drug . . . or drugs. And LA and Chicago and Paris and London . . . essential we find way of stopping this thing. Its virulence could wipe out a quarter or even a half world population. Think of Black Plague in the middle ages . . .”
His assault on her was halted by Brett Anderson suddenly appearing out of nowhere and handing her his telephone. “For you,” he said.
She smiled and excused herself, taking the phone and answering it.
“Hi Debra. I have the president on the line for you. One moment please.”
“Debra?”
“Yes, Mr. President.” She didn’t even notice the way Avi and the other Harvard scientists looked at her in amazement.
“Debra, I want you back in the White House as soon as possible.”
“What’s up?”
“Just get back here.”
LATER THAT DAY, IN WASHINGTON
After the second appointment missed and ten phone calls to her mobile went unanswered, Kathy Moss, personal assistant to Christine Knowles, Deputy Secretary of Health and Human Services, phoned through to Human Resources to say that she was concerned about her boss’s welfare. It was rare for Miss Knowles to miss a day’s work, let alone not phone through with a reason.
Because of the security clampdown on government offices and personnel due to the murder the previous day of Secretary Harper, normal procedure—phoning several times before sending somebody around to her apartment—was replaced by a Secret Service officer going personally to her home. When there was no response, he broke down the door. The moment he entered, he phoned through to his boss.
“Code Red.” He gave the address, withdrew his gun, and searched the apartment. When he was satisfied that he was alone with the corpse, he waited for reinforcements to arrive. His training told him not to touch a single thing but to wait for forensic scientists. Having ascertained that she was clearly dead and had been for probably many hours, he didn’t even touch the note she was still gripping in her dead claw that once was her hand.
***
The president handed photocopies of the note around to his security people, those cabinet secretaries whom he’d invited, Debra, and his chief of staff. They all read it quickly, but the content was clear enough.
“The bitch,” said the secretary of state. “So it was CHAT after all.”
“Looks like it,” said the president. “We’ve arrested their office staff for questioning, and we’re turning over their computers and documents as we speak. But at least we know how the details leaked out about whether it was bats or other vectors that were causing this plague.”
“Do you think there’s anybody else at Health who was working with her?” asked the secretary.
The president shrugged. “We’re questioning her direct reports and her administrative staff, but they seem genuinely stunned. Look, she was a cat- and bird-loving lonely woman with no husband or partner and almost no family, except a sister in New York, no social life and looking forward to a retirement of loneliness and ill health. From the reports, in her younger days, she was an up-and-comer, but for the past twenty years, she’s been a time server with little enough to occupy her mind.”
Nathanial Jefferson Thomas, president of the United States, looked around at the faces of his colleagues. But one of them was frowning.
“You have a problem Ted.”
Ted Marmoullian, head of White House security, said, “Damn right I do. Sorry, Mr. President, but I think this letter is a crock. I know it’s in her handwriting, but I think she’s been the subject of a double-blind. She thinks that she was giving information to CHAT to help protect animals and that led her to the inevitable conclusion it was CHAT that killed Secretary Harper. That’s why the old bitch whacked herself. But I’ll bet you a bottle of fifty-year-old bourbon that they’ll find nothing that will tie CHAT to the murders. I think this woman killed herself in grief because she felt responsible for a crime she thought she had helped perpetrate. But the real killers probably had no idea of Christine Knowles’s existence. She was a bit player and CHAT’s name was used by the people who organized the actual killing of Secretary Harper and her family. No, Mr. President, my money’s still on WEL and that bastard Stuart Chalmers.”
***
Unless it’s a major assault against the country such as 9/11, the news cycle, even one obsessed with the murder of a cabinet secretary, tends to last little more than two or three days. Not that the news disappears; it just leaves page one to enter the graveyard of page fifteen and beyond.
But the moment the White House correspondents for the major television networks and newspapers of record began sniffing details of a lower-grade Health Department official who’d killed herself soon after the death of Secretary Harper and her family, the speculation ran white hot. Demands were made of the presidential media spokesperson, Aphra Howard, to front the correspondents so she could answer questions. After a hurried consultation with the president and a briefing from his chief of staff, she entered the media room and read a brief statement.
DC police are currently investigating the death of Christine Knowles, Deputy Secretary of Health and Human Services, whose body was found in her apartment this morning when she failed to answer her phone and didn’t turn up for work. We have no further details at this time and will release a full report as soon as the police and other authorities have had time to investigate her death.
She knew that the media throng would demand more. She was right. As she began to answer questions, the president watched her performance on closed circuit television from his Oval Office.
“Aphra, is it true that Ms. Knowles committed suicide?”
“I can’t comment at this time.”
“Is her death linked with the murder of Secretary DeAnne Harper and her family?”
“We’re not ruling out anything at this stage until the police have concluded their investigation.”
Smelling blood, two dozen reporters put up their hands, but the question went to Lyddy Outram, the seventy-nine-year-old veteran Mother of the House who worked for Time Magazine and who had outlasted five presidents. In her harsh and creaking voice, she asked, “There are rumors that Professor Stuart Chalmers was in police custody yesterday morning and was questioned about the possible involvement of his militant organization Whole Earth League in Secretary Harper’s murder. Was Ms. Knowles also questioned by police and is that the reason she committed suicide?”
Aphra Howard looked startled as the elderly reporter spiked her with a question she wasn’t expecting. As was the president. But once the name of the WEL was out to the public, he knew that he had to contain this thing. He rose immediately from his chair and marched to the door to walk the short distance from the Oval Office to the media center in the White House.
“Don’t, Mr. President,” shouted his chief of staff who was monitoring the press conference. “Don’t sir. Don’t get involved. Aphra is quite capable of handling . . .”
President Nathanial Thomas paced along the corridors to the surprise of his staff and thrust open the door of the media room. As the entire White House media pack looked up in surprise, the front row stood, and immediately the whole room was on its feet. He mounted the podium and waved them to sit.
“Please excuse me, Aphra, for butting into your conference, but I was watching on my television and I wanted to answer these issues personally. It’s important, ladies and gentlemen, that you hear this from the president of the United States.”
He turned to the Lyddy Outram who’d just asked the question about WEL. “Lyddy, you’ve just mentioned Professor Stuart Chalmers and the Whole Earth League. We can neither confirm nor deny WEL’s involvement in recent terrorist assaults against this country. Yes,” he said as people in the room gasped and hurriedly scribbled down his explosive words, “I said terrorist. Of course we’re waiting on forensic and investigatory evidence about Secretary Harper’s murder and the killing of her entire family, but it’s pretty obvious from the residue of the explosive C-4 found in the basement of her house that this was a planned, merciless, and evil killing of one of the most senior public servants who had devoted her life to the good of the United States. Not a gas explosion, nor an accident but a vicious terrorist murder of a fine American and her family.
“Which leads to the obvious conclusion that this crime was perpetrated by a person or persons who were not criminals, but criminal terrorists. Perhaps an overseas terrorist, but much more likely, indeed almost certainly, a homegrown one; a latter-day Timothy McVeigh fighting for his or her perverted belief that animal life is more sacred than human life. At the moment, we don’t have sufficient evidence against any one individual or group. We’re concentrating massive efforts of all our branches of law enforcement against well-known radical animal liberationists. Yes, Lyddy, we’re investigating WEL and CHAT and many other animal liberation groups. As president of the United States, I won’t sit by and allow little children, men, and women in this country to die horrible deaths in order to protect an animal or insect species that is the vector for this new danger to our society.
“Some in America might have problems with us killing animals to protect ourselves. That’s a topic that I’m sure will be discussed endlessly in ethics classes and university debating societies. But I’m charged by my oath of office to protect and defend this country. And by God, that’s what I’m going to do, regardless of animal or plant liberationists, or any other extremist group who gets in my way.”
He turned and walked from the podium, ignoring the shouts of the media to answer some questions. As he paced back to his office, his chief of staff, surrounded by his assistants, thought about the repair work he’d now have to do to mollify the entire environmental movement in the United States and overseas and wondered whether Dwight Eisenhower’s chief of staff ever had to do more for his boss than arrange golf partners.
***
That evening, the early news segments on network and cable channels carried the type of headline that sent PR people and lobbyists into a flat spin. “In
an extraordinary outburst, President Thomas launches an all-out assault on militant conservation and animal rights organizations as he vows to put people before animals.”
The image on the screen of the newsreader was immediately replaced by the president behind the podium promising to protect and defend the country regardless of animal or plant liberationists. The clip was instantly followed by the anchor questioning the channel’s White House reporter, positioned on the lawn outside the West Wing, asking him about today’s unprecedented outburst. “Not within living memory, Angela, can any correspondent remember the president bursting into the White House briefing room, interrupting his press secretary, virtually expelling her from the stage, and launching into a full throttle assault like this. It was reminiscent of the fire and brimstone sermons of Pentecostal preachers thumping their pulpits. When he left the briefing room, his spokesperson, Aphra Howard, tried bravely to regain her composure, but you could tell that this was an extraordinary moment in presidential history, one which will be the talk of Washington town for years to come.”
“So what does this all mean for animal species, Jim?”
“Well, Angela, that’s the big question because if ever there was a declaration of war, this was it. The president was saying in no uncertain terms that if any animal species, be it bird, bat, farm animal, feral animal, or insect is found to be the cause of these hideous outbreaks and deaths in communities all around the world, then the president will order their extermination, regardless of outcries from animal liberationists. From his mood today, you can be absolutely certain that he won’t tolerate any interference from animal rights movements, conservation NGOs, or animal welfare groups. I don’t know how else to express it, Angela, but as of today, the United States is at war, at war with those animals that are making us sick. The weapon in this battle for survival is science, the enemy is . . . well, you tell me.”