The sea air and slapping of water on the hull gradually gave way to exhaust fumes and traffic noise as they slid into Copenhagen’s canals and the marina hove into sight. Ingrid’s diesel fired, and Havard lowered sail and guided her somewhat tubby hull into the berth. St. Ingrid was his home, his constant companion, and they lived together in Helleruphavn, near the center of the city.
A large and portly man, Havard Troelsen’s ruddy complexion befitted a life-long sailor. A traditional Danish long-stemmed pipe split the red mustache that nearly covered his mouth, and a black sailor’s cap, which on many would appear to be an affectation, was worn with assuredness.
Havard poured some freshly brewed coffee from the pot on the stove, picked up a magazine, and slipped into the built-in chart station by the gangway. He dipped his mustache in the coffee as he thumbed through it. While he did not ordinarily bring his work to sea with him, the previous Thursday a copy of Avante-Garde Medical Times had landed on his desk. An article inside had caught his eye: “Paternal mtDNA Inheritance and Olfactory Afflictions.”
The brass clock on the bulkhead chimed a single bing!—half past eight. The office was open, so with a grunt, Havard picked up his ’phone and dialed. “Good morning, Erik. I will not be in this morning.” He paused for a moment and ran his eye over the article. “Following the conference at the Center for Disease Control next month, I need you to book for me a flight from Atlanta, Georgia, to Philadelphia. Also, I will require accommodation in Philadelphia. Can you do this for me? Very good.” He lay his finger under the author’s by-line. “Now I would like if you could please get for me the phone number of a Dr. Robert Scholl, at the University of Pennsylvania in America. Please text the number to me when you have. Thank you, Erik. Thank you.”
~* * *~
“For Christ’s sake, what is this?” Karen tossed the June issue of the Avant-Garde Medical Times onto Pat’s desk.
Pat hunched so tightly it appeared as if his shoulders would touch. “I know. I’ve seen it.”
“I thought we had decided to sit on this until further notice.”
“We had. I had nothing to do with this, I swear on my mother. Dr. Dickhead decided to do it all on his own, and decided to include my name just for fun.”
Karen slapped her palm to her forehead. “Terrific. Just terrific.”
“I wouldn’t mind quite so much if the article was well-written, or if it were any way accurate, or if it hadn’t been published in a rag that I wouldn’t wipe me bum with.”
Karen folded her arms and took her weight on one leg. “You could set the record straight.”
Pat slid his chair back, and stood a little more than an arm’s length from Karen. “You know as well as I do that would do more harm than good. Much as I would love to disassociate myself from Arsehole and that filthy rag, it would bloody well start a fire that would burn James.”
“Yes. You’re right,” she admitted.
“Look, love, nobody reads that rubbish anyway. It’s not peer-reviewed, and nobody but the fringe element pays any attention. Worst case, someone is going to show up and try and fix our ‘olfactorally deformed patient’, as ol’ Bob-oh describes him, with some incense and chanting.”
“Oh, God, I hope so. Well, not the incense and chanting so much.”
“Well, with the amount of data, if you can call it that, I have obtained with Jimmy’s scuba dives into the Gulf of Infection, we’ve been landed with another problem.”
“Yeah, I know what you’re saying. What are we going to do with the data?”
“Exactly. It’s golden, all of it. Our colleagues are either going to think we have some marvelous new microscope, complete with smell-a-vision, or they are going to lock us up as loonies. Neither of those things is what you might call desirable.”
Karen pulled up a chair and sat across it with her arms on the back. “Maybe we need to stop this now.”
“Maybe. I can keep looking at his physiology quietly, but after almost two months, I can’t see how it can be called anything but propitious. The little bugger will probably live to be a hundred and twenty.”
“In which case he’ll have a long, long medical career.”
Pat’s grin threatened to slit his face. “He’s in? Really?”
“Starts next week. The obligatory schmoozing was unpleasant, but yes, my kid’s starting pre-med.” Karen choked up with motherly pride.
Pat gave her a big hug. “That is outstanding! I’ll have to take him out and show him how a real doctor tests a liver!”
“Easy, boy. Remember who we’re talking about here.”
“Ah, your son, your son, of course. Sorry, Mummy!”
“No, I mean the kid doesn’t drink. Not what you could call drinking, anyhow.”
“Sure, we can work on that. He’s young yet.”
Twenty-three
Pat knew he needed help, not to mention tools and expertise he did not possess—specifically, a heavy-water cell analysis. Conveniently, a friend, a Professor John Turser, had pioneered that very device. The professor had had the samples less than a day when Pat received a call from this very excited man.
“Listen, those tissue samples you sent?”
Pat swapped the receiver to his other ear, then said, “Yes, I know them well.”
“What the hell are these things from? They’re just—freaky.”
“Yes, John, aren’t they, though? Listen to me, I really need your discretion on this. Sensitive stuff, okay? There’s a privacy issue here.”
“These are human? You’re kidding me. You are kidding me, right?”
“John, would I kid you?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m not. And the person who contributed these samples wishes to remain anonymous. Enough said?”
“Okay, man, if you say so. Your secret’s safe with me. But human? Damn! I thought you were going to tell me these belonged to something found in a fishing net.”
“Heh-heh, no. So tell me, what’s got you lathered up, then?”
“Well, when we read the spectrometer readout, we got a few anomalies.”
“To be honest, I expected as much. That’s why I entrusted them to you, dear boy!”
“Yeah, well, you might want to sit down for this.”
“I’m big and ugly enough to take it. Let me have it.”
“They’re producing a very unusual protein.”
“Okay, what are we talking?”
“Looks a little like the AIM2 protein. You know it?”
“Yes, yes. The little bugger they isolated last year. The one that detects pathogens and sounds the alarm to the immune system.”
“That’s the one, but this chain is a lot larger, and it’s almost like three AIM2 strands arranged in a three-pointed star, a trefoil. One end of each is bonded to the other two.”
“Really? Now that is interesting.”
“Very! You really have something here, buddy.”
“Don’t I know it,” Pat said. “Kinda like I found an old atomic bomb in the basement.”
“Is this guy sick?”
“Well, we don’t think so, but that’s what we’re trying to find out. We discovered a few anomalies ourselves, which is why I thought a protein production analysis might be a good idea.”
“What, anomalies like those monster mitochondria?”
“A-ha, you noticed those, did you?”
“I’ve never seen anything like ’em. I got curious and took a peek at some of your guy’s cells in our electron ’scope.” John paused, then said, “Are you sure this guy isn’t suffering from some sort of mito disease? It’s hard to imagine how anyone couldn’t with this much going on.”
“Well, he seems completely healthy, so yeah, I think so. But if I can bring you back to these proteins for a moment, any notion at all what they’re for?”
“You’re kidding, right? I’ve had them less than a week! I’m sure a clever laddie like you will get to the bottom of it.”
“Yeah, right. Me, myself, an
d I. The one-man research team.”
“What are you talking about? Surely Scholl will throw all the resources you want into this.”
“The name of the game here is to keep Arsehole out of it. Did you see that bloody thing he published last month?” Pat ground his teeth and twanged the receiver cord.
“Actually, I was avoiding the subject. Trying to be polite.”
“All him, mind you. None of it mine. But sure, nothing I can do about it now.”
“Pat, there’s ways and means of keeping your guy anonymous. That shouldn’t be a problem for a man of your talents.”
“That may be, but I have my reasons,” Pat said brusquely.
“Well, suit yourself. Can I ask you something, though? Is this limited to the liver tissue you sent, or is this phenomenon consistent throughout the individual?”
“It seems to be pretty much the same, though I’ve only sampled a few cell types so far. So I might have a bit more business coming your way.”
“Always welcome, Pat. For samples like these, lab time is on the house.”
“I’ll hold ya to it.” Pat laughed.
“Right, well, I’ll e-mail everything I have this afternoon.”
“But to my private e-mail, right?”
“Sure, if you prefer. Can I get some more feedback on this thing, though? You’ve really got me curious.”
“Sorry, John, not for the moment. When I can, though. Okay?”
“Great, Pat. Nice talking to you.”
“And to you, John. Take care, now.”
Click.
Pat knew that he was looking straight at the solution to the puzzle named James at that moment. Like he’d captured some new and wonderful insect and it was crawling around the inside of a mason jar, right before his eyes.
Pat was not the only one who had just made a catch, however.
“Got him!” Bob said and thrust a fist into the air, then clicked the pause button on his recording software. Best $79.99 I’ve ever spent, he thought. Tapping Pat’s phone hadn’t been difficult at all, and now he had him. He pulled the time cursor back and played the recording, pausing now and again to take careful notes.
~* * *~
When Havard presented himself to Doctor Scholl, Bob gushed like a schoolgirl. When his distinguished visitor showed an interest in his fossil collection, Bob opened the cabinet in a flash, placed one item after another into his guest’s hand, and asked Havard to guess how much he had paid for each one. After allowing himself to be bored in this fashion for a polite eternity, Havard asked if he could meet Bob’s co-author, Dr. Roche. Bob made the call, then dragged Havard excitedly through the campus to the ward where Pat was working that day, and breezed through the door with his guest in tow.
“Ah, good morning, Dr. Roche!” Bob bowed to Havard and said, “Dr. Troelson, may I introduce you to my head of research and literary partner, Dr. Patrick Roche?”
Pat, who had been attending a patient, a young boy, stood and pushed his glasses up his nose. Havard stepped up to shake his hand, and stopped when he saw it held a hypodermic. Pat looked at the big Dane, and then at Bob. He silently capped the needle and placed it in a kidney pan.
“My dear Doctor Roche,” Havard said, “I am so pleased to meet you, finally.”
Pat closed the curtain between his patient and the next. Bob squeezed in next to Havard and said, “And this is the eminent Dr. Havard Troelson of the World Health Organization in Copenhagen.”
Pat twisted his lip and took Havard’s hand. “Yeah, yeah, nice to meet you too, Doctor.” He furrowed his brow. “Isn’t the WHO in Geneva?”
“Yes, yes, but the European offices are in Copenhagen,” Havard said.
“Ah, right. Every day’s a school day, eh? Anyhow, I’m sure you’re very welcome, Doctor.”
Bob beamed at both men in turn, then addressed Pat. “Dr. Troelson is here because of the article in the Avant-Garde Medical Times. What do you think of that, Dr. Roche?”
“I think you wouldn’t need to be a mind reader to see how happy I am about that, Doctor-r-r-r Scholl.”
Havard said, “Dr. Roche, Dr. Scholl has been filling me in on your work, but I must say he is being just a little bit secretive. He is not giving away much, and I am, frankly, quite fascinated.”
“You’re too kind, Dr. Troelson. We really have very little, though.”
“Of course, but still, this sounds amazing.”
“It does? That article? Amazing?”
“Of course.”
“Right, if you say so,” Pat said. He shrugged, picked up the hypo, and turned back to the boy.
Bob cleared his throat. “So, Doctor, would you like to fill us in on young, um…” He picked up the chart. “…Chris, here?”
Pat ignored Bob while he carefully inserted the needle and drew blood. “Sorry about the pinch there, Chris. This will only take a few seconds and...there now, all done.” He extracted the needle and stuck the vial into its envelope. “We’re going to have a little look at what ails you. How’s that?”
“Unh. Sure.” Chris had clearly had enough of being poked and prodded.
“Relax there, fella. You’ll be out of here in no time.” Pat turned back to Bob and said with a smirk, “Well, the chart says it all, Bob.”
Bob glared, then read, “Ah yes, pneumonia, and then Clostridium difficile.” He looked expectantly at Pat.
Pat shrugged and said, “I’ll be with you in a moment; is that all right, Doctor?”
“Of course, Doctor,” said Bob.
Pat nodded his head towards Havard, and with a formal bow, said, “Doctor.” Havard returned the courtesy, Pat nodded to Bob again and said, “Doctor,” smirked, and turned his attention to Chris.
“How come you’re my doctor today? Where’s Doctor Aikins?” Chris asked in a piercing whine.
Pat tussled the boy’s hair and said, “Ah, he’ll be around to see you later. I’m a sort of specialist. I look at the bugs that made you sick, and make new medicines to kill them.”
“So you’re making a medicine to kill the bugs in me?”
“Ah, the bugs in you are already on their way out, son. What I want to see is how well the medicines we used on them did the job. You see?”
“Oh, all right. How do you do that?”
“Well, I’m going to look at your blood and see how that looks, and I got one or two other little samples off ya as well.”
“You talk funny.”
“I’m from Ireland; that’s why I talk funny.”
“Oh. Why did you come to Philadelphia, then?”
“Ah, that’s a long story, Chris. You just rest there now, and we’ll look after the little buggers that caused you all that trouble, okay?”
“What’s a bugger?”
“Uh, never mind about that. Just relax. Here, play your video game there, and maybe I’ll see you later, okay?”
“How do you know the buggers are dying?”
“Ah, well, I have a bit of a secret weapon for that!” Pat winked and tapped the side of his nose.
“Yeah? What kind of weapon?”
“Well, if I told you that it wouldn’t be a secret now, would it?”
“I guess, but why does it have to be a secret?”
“Just does. Take my word for it.”
“I feel like crap. I want to go home,” Chris whimpered.
Bob stepped forward and said, “Yes, of course you do, and I am sure you will, very soon, with Dr. Roche’s help.” He clapped his hand on Pat’s shoulder, underscoring his confidence in the boy’s care. Then he moved Pat away from Chris’ bed. “What exactly is your interest in this case, Doctor?”
“Well, Bob, you got it in one.”
Bob glared at Pat, who remained resolutely oblivious to Bob’s annoyance. Havard covered a grin with his hand.
In his own good time, Pat picked up the chart and said, “Young fella came in with a bad dose which led to pneumonia. The antibiotics wrecked his gut flora. Now he has a CDF infestation which his
doctor is dealing with.”
“I see, but what is your particular interest in the case?” Bob insisted.
“Ah. We’re looking for a more gut-friendly antibiotic is all. Took a bit of blood, gonna have a look. You know how I roll, Bob. Where there is a bug, I’m in there like the Lone Ranger.”
“Has that not already been accomplished, Dr. Roche?” Havard asked.
“Well, sure, but we can always sharpen the tools.”
“Very true.”
“So what are you proposing to do that will improve the ‘tools’, Doctor Roche?” Bob emphasized Pat’s title and narrowed his eyes.
“Well, I’m looking into going further down the road of breaking up bacterial communications by mucking up the auto-inducers. There is a peptide we believe will promote cell suicide, which would pull bacterial populations down below critical numbers, allowing the body to do the rest.”
“I see, I see. This is sound, yet innovative,” said Havard, suitably impressed.
“Yes, such as the new AIM2 protein,” Bob chipped in.
Pat squinted; first one eye, then its neighbor joined in. He cranked his head back on his neck, and his nostrils flared as if a foul smell had entered the room. “Really, Bob? Do you think so?”
“Sure, it’s obvious to the informed.”
Pat rolled his eyes, and again, Havard barely suppressed a smirk as he said, “Wonderful, wonderful! You two are so stimulating. What a wonderful team you make together.”
Bob smiled brightly. “Shall we take some coffee together, Doctor?” he suggested.
“Uhhh,” Havard said, “I am tempted, thank you. But if it is the same to you gentlemen, I would like to see Dr. Roche’s laboratory. I am especially interested in your research on mitochondrial DNA and the heightened olfactory. Your article was simply fascinating to me.”
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