by Thomas Hopp
“Duly noted,” I said. “And admirable. But you’re taking altruism to an extreme. Maybe in the future I can correct the public misperceptions by writing about whose work this really was.”
“I wish you luck,” McKean said. “And there will no doubt be another adventure of this sort to amuse us both very soon.”
“I hope not!”
“Hope as you please,” McKean said matter-of-factly. “But anticipate realistically. I wouldn’t be surprised if something like this happens again tomorrow. It’s part of the times we live in.”
“Horrid times, if that’s true,” Janet said.
“Perhaps,” said McKean. “But times in which I believe good can still win out over evil.”
“Are you so sure?” I asked. “Those ape instincts you mentioned could reduce society to rubble. Down with up.”
McKean shook his head. “No, Fin. They won’t prevail.”
“Why not?”
“The math is simple,” he said. “Although evil springs eternally from the young male ape’s primitive desire for dominance, there is a powerful counterbalancing force. In fact, I believe, a stronger one.”
“Let me in on the secret,” I said, “before I give up on humanity.”
“We have other instincts. Better ones. The instinct to protect other members of the species is built into apes and us. So is the instinct to share, to care for each other, to foster the young in positive ways - to teach them right from wrong. But most important is the instinct to band together and drive away anything that would do us all harm. Chimpanzees will unite to drive away a leopard. They have an instinct to cooperate in mutual defense. And we humans share that instinct.”
“But if there are enough terrorists - “
“Never,” said McKean. “There are always many more people who want to defend society rather than tear it down. Outrages will happen from time to time, but inevitably, the majority - the great, caring mass of humanity - will rouse themselves and put the evil ones in their place. Good prevails in the end by sheer numbers.”
“I hope you’re right,” I said.
“I am sure I am right,” said McKean.
McKean’s cell phone rang and he put it on the bench. By habit never one to need a private conversation, he hit the speaker button.
“Hello,” he called at the phone, simultaneously jotting a note in a laboratory notebook.
A husky voice said, “Hello, Peyton McKean? This is Roger Devon.”
“Hello, Roger.” McKean shot a smart-ass smile at Janet and me, “Dominant ape,” he whispered. Then he spoke into the phone. “How’s your vaccine coming?”
“Slowly,” Devon replied. “In fact, I’m about to cancel the program. I heard you’re shipping your second lot of vaccine today. Is that true?”
“Answer: yes.”
“Then we’ll be getting some of it here in the next day or two to administer to our staff, including me. Looks like you’ve won another round.”
McKean shook his head. “I don’t consider it a matter of winning or losing. We all win when a new vaccine is created.”
Devon paused for a long time. McKean energetically dotted I’s and crossed T’s in his notebook until Devon said, “I wonder if you would consider coming to work for me?”
“Answer: no,” McKean said without a moment’s thought.
Devon paused a moment, and then said, “Can I get you to move from Seattle to Atlanta with the promise of a large office suite, your own secretary, and a bigger and better-staffed laboratory? How about a dozen people working for you?”
“No thank you.”
After another, longer pause, Devon said, “Just be aware, Peyton McKean, I won’t always sit by and watch you and your boss claim all the prizes. You might regret this choice.”
“I doubt it,” said McKean.
They said goodbye and McKean sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers and thinking deeply for a moment after Devon hung up.
“I’m surprised you’re not interested,” I said. “It sounds like he’s offering a big step up for you.”
McKean smiled. “Don’t forget that Devon is a man who rejected my concept for the synthetic vaccine and steadfastly pursued the old, slow methods. Imagine where we would all be if he were my boss.”
“Dead.”
“Exactly. Janet and I would have gotten resistance at every step. He might have even forced us to stop and try it his way. I’ve worked for stodgy old bosses before. They take exception to every new idea and come up with an alternative from their own obsolescent bag of tricks. They’re forever trying to prove themselves smarter than me.”
“And that’s impossible.” Janet smiled.
McKean let the compliment roll off him unacknowledged. “Here, at least I know Holloman is too dumb to come up with another idea. I get a lot more done that way.”
“But he hogs the public recognition.”
“Better for humanity that the work gets done. I would get no credit under Devon, and there would also be no vaccine. Holloman is the lesser of two evils. My top priority is curing disease. Let someone else niggle over who gets credit.”
“It seems you have nowhere to turn, then.”
“Not if I want to get anything done. Speaking of which, Janet and I have just begun a new phase of our work. There is an additional protein-coding segment of viral DNA that can be translated into a second vaccine, for a booster shot to reinforce people’s immune responses to the first. While Holloman and his government buddies mass-produce the first, Janet and I will work up another. I’m sure you will want to be the first journalist to get a look at it.”
“And a dose of it,” I said.
“This virus will keep us busy for months,” said McKean. “Not to mention you, writing a chronicle, if you’re interested.”
“Of course I am.”
“Janet used an electrophoresis procedure to separate the protein shell of the virus into its component parts so we can study them individually.” He pointed to an apparatus near him on the bench top. It was a clear Lucite box about half the size of a car battery, with red and black electrical wires attached to it. It was open on top, and there was a clear, foamy liquid solution inside its transparent reservoir.
“We’ve picked out a second viral surface protein, B16R. That will be the target of our second vaccine. By the way, it’s got another very interesting DNA sequence in it.”
He pointed at the data sheet he had been so busy scrutinizing. On the page filled with long lines of DNA and amino acid codes, he had yellow-highlighted a short region with three lines of code, as before. These read:
GATGAGGCTACGCAT
AspGluAlaThrHis
D E A T H
“I think this sequence will do nicely,” he said to Janet with a chuckle, as we gasped at what we saw.
“Another of Taleed’s too-clever alterations,” he explained.
“He likes to harp on that death-and-dying subject, doesn’t he?” I said.
“True,” McKean agreed. “He expected his virus to spell death for America. Instead, this second vaccine will doubly protect us against it.”
“Peyton McKean,” I said, “allow me to tell you how impressed I am by the methodical and thorough way in which you have neutralized Dr. Taleed’s biological warfare weapon. You’re a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, disguised as a biotechnologist!”
He glanced at me with a humorous twinkle in his brown eyes. “There’s a difference between me and Holmes,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Sherlock Holmes’ methods were fictional. Mine are real.”
“But you still have one thing in common with Sherlock Holmes,” I said.
“Oh?”
“An utter lack of humility.”
McKean smirked, but otherwise ignored the remark. He and Janet leaned closely over the data sheet, like a enthusiastic co-conspirators.
“Do you want three extra amino acids on either side?” she asked.
“Answer: yes.”
> “And a glycine spacer?”
“Exactly.”
“And dipalmitoyl-lysine on the end?”
McKean sat back in his chair. “You’ve got it exactly right, Janet. One day, you’ll make me redundant in my own lab.”
“Then,” I said, “you can start taking credit for her work.”
We all laughed. Then McKean said, “You know, there’s something to that, Fin. While you and I have been discussing who gets credit, we’ve overlooked Janet.” He put a hand on her shoulder and looked her in the face. “You worked a miracle while I was locked up in the isolation ward, Janet. You probably saved both our lives. And many more. Perhaps millions.”
Janet flushed red, beaming a modest but proud smile.
I added, “You probably did more to ruin the Sheik’s plans than anyone else.”
Suddenly, a low, sinister laugh came from the back of the laboratory. The three of us turned. Two men stood near the fire exit doorway.
Chapter 23
“Sheik Abdul-Ghazi!” McKean murmured.
There, impossibly, stood the Sheik, eyeing us as venomously as a cobra. The white turban was gone, as were the flowing robes, exchanged for a black business suit. But the scraggly beard and hateful scowl remained.
McKean rose slowly. For once, his normally taciturn face registered astonishment. “How could you possibly be here?”
“Allah works many wonders,” the Sheik hissed. He came toward us, shadowed by the second man, who was dressed in a black business suit as well.
“Joseph Fuad!” I cried. “So you’ve finally shown your true stripes.”
Fuad held a snub-nosed pistol at waist level, covering us. “Now you know for sure,” he gloated. “I am an agent in the service of jihad.”
The Sheik stopped about five feet from us. He pointed at Janet with a bejeweled hand. “So, this little woman helped her master overcome my holy plan.”
“Master!” Janet cried indignantly. “He’s not - “
“Silence!” the Sheik roared. He drew a small, gold-plated pistol from under his coat and pointed it at her. She cringed, but faced him.
“How did you get in here?” McKean demanded.
The Sheik smiled. “Your security system was no problem for my nephew, Yousef, here. He was trained in such matters by your own FBI. No fire escape is safe from his tricks. Especially when smokers prop certain doors open.”
Janet’s eyes flashed angrily at Fuad. “It was you who destroyed the first batch of vaccine!”
Fuad smiled proudly and nodded.
The Sheik drew near McKean and fixed him in his beady black-eyed gaze. “You are a brilliant man, Peyton McKean. But it seems I have checkmated you in the end. Before we leave here, we will destroy more than a vaccine. We will destroy its makers.”
McKean stood to his full height, looking down on Abdul-Ghazi even though the Sheik himself was a tall man. For a moment not a word was spoken. They glared into each other’s eyes, taking each other’s measure. The Sheik hissed, “So says the holy Qur’an, ‘The plots of the unbelievers will end in nothing.’ ‘
“In the same sura,” McKean countered without hesitation, “it says ‘He that works evil will be requited with evil.’ ‘
The Sheik paused to consider McKean’s statement. A hint of a smile crossed his face, and then disappeared. “I knew you were a learned man, Peyton McKean. But I am surprised to hear you have studied our holy scriptures.”
“I am rather widely-read,” McKean replied.
The Sheik waved his gun hand, dismissing McKean’s comment. “The Qur’an cannot be understood in English. It was inspired in the heart of the Prophet in Allah’s language, Arabic.”
McKean suddenly rattled off several lengthy lines in Arabic - angrily, gutturally and emphatically. I didn’t understand a word of it, but the Sheik’s eyebrows raised.
“Most impressive. You quote our scriptures in their original words.”
“And I know them well enough to know you have misinterpreted them.”
“Ah hah hah hah! You are so wise, Dr. McKean?”
“Enough to see you wrapping yourself in lies that Allah commands what you do. By that logic, whatever cruelty you devise is a divine necessity. Convenient, isn’t it, how your interpretation of Sharia law gives all power to a strongman, namely you? I am sure that suits your personal need for greatness. But your vision of Sharia is the same one that inspired brutal dictators like Moammar Ghadafi and Bashar Assad.”
“It will not matter what you think, when you are dead,” said the Sheik.
“That’s the strongman’s answer to all disagreements, isn’t it?” said McKean. “Anyone who disagrees with me must die! Violence is your ultimate recourse. Violence is what you prefer!”
“As Allah wills.”
“No. As you will. It gives you pleasure to see others in pain.”
“Enough!” He lifted the pistol and aimed it at McKean’s heart. “You are a wise man, Dr. McKean. It is too bad your wisdom has no further purpose on this earth. I am afraid it must die with you.”
McKean stood remarkably calm before immanent death. Steel-eyed, he hissed another Arabic quotation. And then he added in English, “You know as well as I the Qur’an forbids murder.”
“I do not murder,” said the Sheik. “I fight a holy war!”
All this conversation took some time. As it transpired, Janet surreptitiously moved to the bench, inching a hand toward McKean’s telephone. Now Fuad turned his gun on her. She froze.
The Sheik motioned for her to step away from the bench. “No calls for help, little woman.”
She stepped away, and Fuad’s gun hand tracked her closely.
The Sheik’s eyes narrowed. “It is not the place of a woman to challenge men’s doings. And this one has helped destroy my virus - truly Satan has worked his ways through her.”
Janet trembled, but doubled her fists and returned the Sheik’s scowl, venom for venom. He leaned close and muttered into her face, “In my country, an immodest woman like you would be stoned to death. But today a bullet will have to suffice.” He straightened, and said to Fuad, “She is yours to kill, nephew. But first, I claim the honor of killing her master, Peyton McKean.”
“Master!” Janet growled. “That’s the second time you’ve said that!”
“It is the way of Allah,” the Sheik said blandly, “that men should lead and women follow. You could never have prevailed with your vaccine without a man’s instructions.”
Janet sputtered in rage.
McKean said, “If you really believe she, by herself, was unable to defeat you, then let her go. I am the one you need to kill. I am the one who created the vaccine.”
Janet scowled at McKean. “What do you mean, you created it? Didn’t I stay up three nights in a row making it?”
McKean turned his head and half-whispered to Janet, “I’m trying to get you out of this. Will you at least play along?”
The Sheik was momentarily diverted by their bickering, and held his fire.
But as McKean had argued, he had moved a hand to the lab bench. Suddenly he grabbed up the Lucite electrophoresis apparatus and splashed the liquid into Abdul-Ghazi’s face, dousing both his eyes in the frothing solution.
The Sheik cried out in pain and clasped both hands to his face, including the one holding the pistol.
“It’s acid!” McKean shouted loudly enough for the Sheik to hear over his own cries. “You’ll be blinded unless you wash it away with water! Drop the gun and I’ll help you.”
Instead, the Sheik fired a shot blindly at McKean. It went wide of McKean’s shoulder and shattered glassware on a shelf behind him.
McKean sidestepped to get out of the sweep of the gun.
“Kill them!” Abdul-Ghazi shouted to Fuad.
Fuad raised his gun, but I had edged closer to him as he watched the argument. Now I lunged, and struck his arm upward just as he fired. The bullet went over McKean’s head and shattered a fluorescent light in the ceiling. There was no s
econd shot. I swung my fist with every ounce of strength and caught Fuad’s jaw with such force that he lifted off the floor and flew backward through the air. The first part of him to touch the linoleum tile was the back of his skull, with a loud crack! He lay spread-eagled, limp as a dead man. His gun spun away across the floor and stopped against a wastebasket.
The Sheik stood with one hand covering his face and the other outstretched, waving the pistol blindly in search of McKean. Unable to see his target, he held his fire, shaking with rage and pain as the liquid seared his eyes. I picked up Fuad’s gun and pointed it, fully intending to kill him, but McKean raised a hand and I held my fire. He then reached out and deftly disarmed the Sheik, seeming unconcerned about the liquid frothing on the gun.
“Peyton,” I cried. “The acid! Your hand!”
Blinded but undaunted, the Sheik reached beneath the other side of his coat and drew out his jeweled dagger.
Janet was standing close beside him. She grabbed a heavy glass Ehrlenmeyer flask from the counter and swung it hard at the side of his head. It shattered on his temple, knocking him nearly senseless. The dagger dropped from his hand. He staggered in a circle, his jeweled fingers clutching at the air like the claws of a cornered panther. His chest heaved. His eyes were shut tightly against the pain of the foaming liquid.
McKean watched him wheel and turn for a moment, and then grabbed him by both shoulders and forced him down onto a laboratory stool.
Abdul-Ghazi didn’t try to get up. Instead, he rubbed his burning eyes, moaning in pain.
After a minute, he paused. And then he forced one reddened eye open. Squinting, he looked from one to the other of us. His expression, so imperious a minute before, was now confused.
Fuad lay spread-eagled and motionless. I straddled him and glared down into his unseeing, half-open eyes. I trembled with an animal passion, wanting to know for certain he was as dead as he looked. Instead, I saw that he still breathed, spasmodically, in deep, unconscious gasps.