The Chimera Sequence (13 page)

Andrew Mills pointed quickly to his glass and continued on, apparently unperturbed.

“I mean, you know the statistics as well as I do.”

No. No, she probably didn’t.

“A terrorist attack—coupled with our decisive response—gives us an easy ten percent bump in the polls. Easy.” He paused to stuff a piece of pita into his mouth. “Okay, maybe five percent if it’s a small one. Either way, it gives him a chance to show some strength, and that’s what we desperately need right now.”

Anna watched in horror as a half-chewed glob of bread and hummus spilled out of the man’s mouth. He didn’t seem to notice.

“And yet look at us now, with this damned hurricane. Six point drop overnight, and all because the president hasn’t personally gone wading around in the floods yet? It’s pathetic, really.”

The man could keep talking for hours. And he would, if Anna didn’t jump in somewhere to stop him. Maybe that’s why he liked her so much already? Because she was willing to set him straight, lowly intern that she was? The rest of the staff in the press office seemed to have given up on the task—they rarely interrupted his verbal crisis-of-the-day diarrhea.
Here goes nothing
.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mills,” she started. “But I think that if your well-rested, pre-political self could only hear the way you’re droning on right now, he would probably throw up even more of that pita than you already have.”

Mills stopped mid-chew, picked up a napkin, and wiped his mouth. It worked. He scrunched up his large nose and tilted his head.

“I mean, just listen to yourself!” Or maybe the reason he liked her was because she shared this tendency to let loose with impassioned rants on a fairly regular basis. “Here you are, comparing a terrorist incident—no, almost asking for one—to a hurricane, judging them only on the way they impact our president’s poll numbers? Is that really the only thing that matters to you? I’m sorry, but that’s what’s pathetic. Not the allegedly fickle emotions of the American people.”

The press secretary finished chewing and swallowed his bite. He looked at her with what seemed like a bewildered awe in his eyes.

“Anna McBride.”

“That’s my name.”

“Who knew that the token cowgirl intern from Wyoming could turn out to be such a little firecracker?”

Anna felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She hated the way she blushed so easily.

“You know,” Mills continued, “the president was really impressed with you yesterday. That little encounter in my office might turn out to be your lucky break.”

She brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Another nervous habit she would be happy to do without.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” he said. “He specifically asked me to include you at the highest level as we continue to mold his image for the upcoming election. Finger on the pulse of America’s youth—I think those were the exact words he used, if you must know.”

Not that she was surprised. Anna was quite familiar with the incredulous look the president had given her the day before. Apparently there was something about her first impression that gave older WASP-y men low expectations for her in the wit and intellect departments. Even though she didn’t like being so thoroughly misjudged based on these superficial assessments, she was quickly learning that the stereotypes could also be used to her own advantage.

“I’m not sure how similar I am to the rest of America’s youth,” she said. “But I’m honored he mentioned me, and you know I want to contribute however I can.” Did she really, though? After just two weeks at the White House, Anna wasn’t quite so sure a second term was really in the country’s best interests.

“Long as you keep working your ass off and making friends like you’re already doing, you’re on track for a pretty eye-opening summer. Access most interns could only dream about.” Mills scooped up another bite. “You like the hummus? This is the only place in D.C. to get the real thing, you know. I fell in love with the stuff in Beirut.”

“I love it!” She really did. “When were you in Beirut?” It sounded like such a romantic city, in the fullest sense of the word.

“Way back when you were still running around barefoot on that ranch of yours, probably.” He rested his chin in one hand, his face relaxing for a rare second. “I ran public affairs at the embassy for a couple of years.”

“But you’ve barely said a thing about what’s going on in Lebanon right now!”

She hardly knew the story herself.

Anna watched as his cheeks tightened up and the lines around his eyes reappeared.

“You’re right,” he said. “It’s a tough one for me, personally.”

“How so?”

“The president and I don’t exactly see eye to eye on Israel’s place in the world, that’s all. So on that issue, I hold the party line but otherwise keep my mouth shut.”

This was unexpected. Somehow it made her boss seem much more real.

“But anyway,” he continued. “I’m going to keep you busy this summer.”

Back to business.

“We’ll let you run with the conflict minerals project, see if you can find another good venue for that speech we missed yesterday.”

“Sounds perfect,” she said. “I’ve already been in touch with—”

“Then there’s the big party at the Capitol coming up at the end of the week,” he interrupted. “We’ve got to do everything we can to keep the press selling it for us big time. Of course, that’s not going to be easy with this damn storm grabbing for everyone’s attention. We need to dream up some creative ways to tell the public about the president’s involvement.”

Anna frowned.

“Even though you’ve already told me he has no intention of getting more involved?”

“It’s all about perceptions, my dear.” Mills grinned across the table. “That’s a lesson you need to learn early in this business.”

Her frown changed into a scowl. Was there really no other way to run a country?

The savory smell of grilled meat interrupted her thoughts.

“
Marhaba
, Mr. Andrew, my friend.” A man arrived at the end of their table carrying a huge platter filled with bite-sized pieces of lamb and vegetables. His kind face was darkened with what looked to be a permanent five o’clock shadow extending most of the way up his round cheeks.

“Fadi, I didn’t know you were here.”

Anna was again surprised at the clear change in her boss’s demeanor. He looked so much better without that stressed out grimace she was used to.

“I want you to meet my new intern, Ms. Anna McBride.”

“It is my pleasure.” The man set the platter down on their table and bowed his head, one hand over his heart. “Any friend of Andrew’s is most welcome at my restaurant.”

She was beautiful, this new intern. Andrew did know how to pick them. But it wasn’t the regal beauty of his own wife and daughter. The blended Mediterranean features of Lebanese women had been making the world’s men swoon for thousands of years, and Fadi Haddad took great pride in that fact.

“So how long have you been coming here, anyway, Mr. Mills?”

The girl spoke with a comfortable confidence that Haddad had grudgingly come to admire in American women. How could he not, with his own daughter Myriam embracing the trait so fully?

“Too long,” Andrew replied with a grin. “I first stepped into The Lonely Cedar as a lowly college intern with the State Department, what, almost twenty years ago now?”

“Yes, that must be right,” Haddad said. “You didn’t look so different then. Only a skinnier and happier version of yourself.”

It was true. His friend’s slow deterioration over the past three years had been obvious, one lunchtime conversation at a time. The big job at the White House had not been good for him, even if it represented the realization of so many dreams.

Friend. It was a funny word to use, given their diverse stations in life—a devout Muslim immigrant and the blue-blooded voice of the American president—but there it was. And it was the same with many of his customers at the restaurant. Unlikely friendships forged over hummus and baklava. The conversations ran deep and the mutual affection was genuine. These pillars of Western power had been coming to his little restaurant for almost thirty years to share their hopes and fears. And for what? Simply because they enjoyed his generous welcomes and savory snacks?

But what if these men and women knew the truth? He could barely restrain a shudder from rippling through his heavy frame.

“I must get back to the kitchen,” Haddad said, bowing again. “If you will excuse me, my friends.”

“Thanks, Fadi.” Andrew waved a hand over the table. “I don’t know what I would do without your feasts to look forward to every week.”

The girl nodded and looked up at him with an honest smile. “Yes, thank you. I already know I’ll be back!”

Haddad turned away from the table. Why didn’t he ask about the attacks in Lebanon? He had promised himself that he would, if the press secretary showed up for his regular Tuesday lunch. Maybe there was something that could be done? Maybe the United States didn’t really understand the suffering that was being inflicted on his people by those Zionist invaders? He wanted to believe it, with all his heart.

But he didn’t ask.

He couldn’t.

Not now.

A message had appeared in the Drafts folder of his shared Gmail account the day before.

A message that would change everything.

Still no answer?” Marna Van Wyk watched Cole slide the phone back into his pocket. She could tell he was nervous. He had already reached the limits of what his own basic lab could do, and Dr. Musamba just stopped by with a report that the little orphaned gorilla was taking a turn for the worse. Not like they needed another complication added into the mix.

“Nope,” Cole said. “This time it went straight to the doctor’s voicemail, like the phone is turned off.”

“Well shit.”

“My feelings exactly.” He sat down again at the desk. “Let me try the hospital one more time. If they’re still not picking up we’ll see if we can reach the main Doctors Without Borders office in Nairobi.”

Marna felt another wave of dizziness come over her. She leaned against the doorframe and closed her eyes. This was the third time in as many hours, and she was getting worried. The South African helicopter pilot had always prided herself on a robust immune system—she was always the one person among her friends who somehow avoided coming down with the flu every year. But now she felt downright nasty. The dizziness she could handle. It was the throbbing headache that made it hard for her to concentrate on anything else.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Marna opened her eyes and saw Cole staring at her.

“Yeah, fine,” she lied. “Think I’m just tired. I’ll head back to my room as soon as we figure out what’s up with these visitors.”

Cole pulled out his phone and started dialing.

“Yes, hello, is this the field hospital in Goma?”

He raised his eyebrows and gave Marna a thumbs up.

“Perfect, great. This is Dr. Cole McBride, calling from Rwanda. We were expecting your director, Dr. Lars Olsson, and another visitor here in Musanze some time ago.”

Cole paused as he listened, then his whole body slumped into the chair.

“Wow, I’m sorry to hear that. And you have no other way to get in touch or track them down?”

He pushed one hand into his thick dark hair.

“I understand. Yes, that sounds like the best course.” He paused to listen. “And the patient, the one Dr. Olsson suspected of monkeypox, how is he?”

Another pause, longer this time. Marna wanted to care, but the pain in her temples made it almost impossible.

“Well that’s bit of good news, I guess. Although it might be easier on you if he just died already. I imagine you’re not fully equipped for true isolation procedures?”

Cole stood up and walked around the desk. He held the phone to his ear with one hand, nodding his head. Marna gave him a questioning look as he raised the other hand to her forehead and rested it there for a few seconds.

“I understand,” he said, his lips forming a thin line. “Please keep us updated on Dr. Olsson and the journalist. And let me know if you identify any other possible cases.”

He wrote down two phone numbers and gave his own.

“Thanks again, we’ll be in touch.” Cole placed his phone on the desk and put an arm behind Marna’s back. A comforting strength radiated from his touch. She realized she was shivering.

“Marna, you’re sick,” he said.

And that was the last thing she heard.

Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just received some good news from the flight deck.” The flight attendant’s amplified sweet southern drawl broke through even the highest setting on Dr. Bill Shackleton’s noise-canceling headphones. “We’re anticipating a brief respite from the high winds over the next twenty minutes or so, and we are now number five for takeoff. Please turn your cell phones to airplane mode and discontinue use of any larger electronic devices.”

He would believe it once they were in the air. But Shackleton still lifted the headphones off his shiny brown scalp. No reason to make things difficult for the flight crew. They looked stressed enough as it was.

The flight had already been delayed for three hours, and his initial optimism about their chances of beating the brunt of the storm was long gone. As if sixteen hours squeezed into a coach class seat meant for someone half his height wasn’t enough. But that came with the territory as a government employee in an age of fiscal restraint.

“Hey Bill,” a man’s voice called across the aisle. Travis Grinley was a promising young virologist—recently graduated with a PhD in molecular virology from Columbia—who Shackleton had handpicked for the mission. He was responsible for most of the high-tech toys packed safely below them in the plane’s hold. “Think we might really get off the ground this time?”

“Sadly, no,” he replied. “But you know I want this trip as much as the rest of you guys.”

“Ha, I believe it. Can’t say I’m jealous of desk jockeys like you.”

It was true. The worst part about taking over as head of Viral Special Pathogens was that he rarely got out of the office anymore. All the things he loved about outbreak investigations were still happening, but now he was reading the reports about his subordinates’ international adventures rather than leading them himself.