The Gemini Virus (22 page)

She was studying a blood sample taken from one of the chickens—they had six different specimens on hand—when her cell phone jingled. She put the small Bluetooth device in her ear and pressed the button.

“Cara Porter.”

“Hello, Cara Porter, this is Michael Beck. How’s it been going?”

“Less than stellar.”

“Yeah, I heard. I assume you guys are trying pretty much everything at this point.”

“You name it, we’re trying it. Amantadine, ribovirin, penciclovir, interferon type one, even ganciclovir, which only works with herpes … We’re not getting anywhere.”

“Always the problem with antivirals. What works with one doesn’t work with any other.”

Since antiviral drugs were designed to interrupt the viruses at a certain stage in their life cycle, each one had to be essentially tailor-made for the virus it was designed to target. Success in producing such a medication required exhaustive testing and experimentation due to the unique characteristics of each pathogen. In some instances, for example, a virus was best stifled in the preentry stage, before it had the chance to subjugate the host cell. One effective way to achieve that was by providing mimicking agents that misled the virus into attacking “decoy” cells. Another was to prevent the virus from binding with the host cell’s receptor molecules—an approach that had worked with some success in the treatment of HIV and AIDS. A second approach was to disrupt the virus after it had invaded the host cell. Again, deceiving the pathogen was the most effective strategy. One, known as reverse transcription, provided nucleoanalogues that acted as RNA/DNA building blocks but would instead shut down the virus’s sythesizing enzymes. Another, the protease inhibitor, prevented a virus from reassembling protein chains before new viruses could be created. Protease inhibitors had shown great promise in spite of some troubling side effects, and research on their improvement had continued unabated. A few antivirals focused on the assembly and release phases of the viral life cycle, and a handful bypassed the replication process altogether and worked to stimulate the immune system.

“We’ll keep at it, though, and try everything we can.” Porter said. “Every drug we can get our hands on. We just need some bell bottoms and lava lamps and it’s Haight-Ashbury all over again.”

Beck chuckled. “Except without the free love.”

“Considering how much tension there is over here, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Now, now, let’s remember you’re a lady.”

“Up yours.”

“Right. Hey, listen, I understand someone in Atlanta thinks there might be an influenza connection?”

“Yeah. Gregory Cox thought he saw something in the gene sequence that was similar. Everyone else is taking a look.”

“Hmm … well, I guess it’s a start. Now that they’ve mapped out the whole thing, they’re sure it’s not in the pox family?”

“No, that’s still a possibility. But it isn’t smallpox. They did a side-by-side with
Variola
.”

Beck said, “I hope Sheila releases that information soon. The press just won’t let go of it. All someone has to do is read up on smallpox and they’d know. Even if it’s a relative, it’s
not
smallpox. It’s obviously much deadlier.”

“Let’s lay odds on someone at home taking the time to conduct that research.”

“I know, but the public is scared out of their wits, and they have every right to be.”

“I’ll tell you one thing,” Porter said, “it seems to me that the virus is pretty stable. I’ve been throwing some foreign genetic bits and pieces at it, and none of them have stuck. That’s good news, I guess. It reduces the chance of it turning into something else.”

“You’ve been doing this research on your own?”

“Yeah, pretty much. Someone’s going to have to do it anyway, so I figured I’d get the ball rolling.”

The viruses with the greatest likelihood of changing form and developing drug resistance were those with lesser stability. They could more easily swap genetic material with other pathogens, essentially creating altogether new organisms on the fly.

“The little detective in you.”

“Something like that. The instability of the H1N1 virus was what had health officials so concerned in ’09, right?”

“Right. It didn’t turn into anything more virulent, but there seemed to be a fairly good chance that it would. Even to this day, a lot of people in the CDC, WHO, and elsewhere are waiting for that to happen.”

Porter tapped her keyboard and switched to another sample. “Speaking of that, how’s the Hardy Boys stuff going?”

Now Beck sighed. “One lead brings me to another, then to another, and then another. I can’t find the beginning of this thing. Maybe I never will. It’s like that movie we watched on DVD last year,
National Treasure,
where Jon Voight says to Nicolas Cage, ‘And that clue will lead to another clue. Don’t you see? There
is
no treasure.’”

“That was a good movie,” Porter said, ignoring the fact that she’d complained all the way to and from the rental store.

“Yeah, but this isn’t a movie. This is real. We’ve
got
to find the treasure.”

“Nicolas Cage found the treasure, remember?”

“Optimism? From you?”

“I just want to get my picture in the paper.”

“Ah, of course.”

“Where are you headed now?”

“To the home of a guy named Bob Easton. More backtracking, and this after doing nothing
but
backtracking and following narrow leads for the better part of two days. Pure drudgery.”

“I know, you’ve been busy as hell.”

“Yeah. And worst of all, this is probably another dead end.”

“So to speak.”

“Yes, so to speak. He had the infection and gave it to his wife. Apparently he killed her before drowning himself in their pool.”

“Lovely.”

“The fun part of this job.”

Porter thought about the animals being tortured in the glass-walled room directly behind her and shuddered.
Of the two professions, I think I’d prefer the one that has me finding people in swimming pools
. “Well, you enjoy that. Let me know if you find anything. Any treasure.”

“I will.”

She ended the call and dropped the earpiece back into the pocket of her lab coat.

After a few more samples, she decided to get up and walk through the halls for a few minutes. She’d been sitting for over two hours and her eyes were burning.

Halfway to the door, she couldn’t resist the urge to at least glance into the animal room. One of the white rats was lying on its side, trembling and looking terrified.

She fought back the urge to scream and kept moving.

TWELVE

The room in President Baraheri’s Tehran residence where he liked to hold these meetings was spare and humble, with white walls, plain brown carpet, and a collection of antique furniture. The Iranian flag stood in one corner, and a framed photo of the Supreme Leader—technically, as the highest authority in both politics and religion, Iran’s most powerful man—hung on the wall, more for its diplomatic value than anything else.

Maziar Baraheri sat on a gold couch near a pair of heavy curtains. His neat silver hair, steel-rimmed glasses, and pleasant face made him look more like a scientist than like a political leader. The election was almost half a year in the past now, yet he was still a complete stranger—the official International Man of Mystery of global politics.

When Iran’s last presidential campaign began, it appeared as though the only two candidates of consequence were the incumbent, conservative Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, and the president before him, moderate Mohammad Khatami. After years of Ahmadinejad’s incendiary policies toward the West, verbal abuse of Israel, and failure to improve the nation’s economy, Khatami found himself with a tremendous lead in the polls, much to the excitement of his many supporters at home and abroad—including the American government. However, he dropped out of the race just two months before the summer election, citing the belief that those in other powerful positions would block him from making the reforms he felt were necessary. Critics and analysts believed another factor was the refusal by Ahmadinejad’s government to allow Khatami to hold rallies in key locations, plus their nocturnal habit of removing Khatami posters from public places.

With less than sixty days to go, Khatami threw his support behind Baraheri, a former two-term mayor from the Shia province of Kerman. Totally unknown outside his obscure hometown, Baraheri endeared himself to the Iranian public with his calm demeanor, seemingly boundless knowledge of the Koran, promise of a “sensible government that works in the best interests of all our people,” and his reputation as a uniter. Khatami campaigned vigorously for him, creating the illusion that Baraheri was equally moderate and thus the two were interchangeable. But mostly, Khatami simply wanted to dethrone Ahmadinejad, which in turn would move Iran closer to a position of sanity on the world stage.

The Iranian people spoke on June 12, and Baraheri took 63 percent of the popular vote—a landslide by any definition. Ahmadinejad’s people did their best to squelch it, but in the end he had no choice but to vacate his office, and the rest of the world breathed a sigh of relief. Baraheri’s first address to the public was rambling and unfocused, leaving other world leaders scratching their heads. It was as if the man was purposely trying to avoid a hard stance on any issue. With rumors rampant that he had written the text himself, most dismissed it as the awkward first effort of an amateur. In time, however, they would realize this “nonimage” was carefully sculpted, suggesting there was more to him than previously estimated. He was unpredictable and subtly manipulative, leaving those around him unsure of whether he was their ally or their enemy, yet he made significant progress on both domestic and foreign fronts. Nevertheless, he did not speak to the media, avoided being photographed, and rarely traveled outside the country.

The only other man in the room with him asked, “The conversation did not go well, I assume?”

Sanjar Hejazi was still handsome and boyish in his fifties, with large eyes and a pile of dark hair on top. He had been friends with Baraheri since childhood. They rose through the political ranks together, with Baraheri always out front and Hejazi behind the curtain working the controls. Baraheri could not have gone far without him and trusted him completely.

“No, it did not,” Baraheri said, exhaling deeply.

“I am surprised he was so swift to condemn you. I thought the two of you were making progress on a personal basis.”

“We were.”

And I genuinely liked the man, too,
Baraheri thought, recalling the previous conversation he’d had with Barack Obama. It was only their third since Baraheri’s election, yet it was three more than anyone else in the world would’ve thought possible. They had even moved beyond politics and discussed casual personal matters—for example, First Lady Michelle’s love of reading and gardening, and the fact that Baraheri’s late wife, Donya, had been an admirer of the American television program
The West Wing
. Baraheri had ended that last call feeling more enthusiastic than ever, excited at the prospect of a renewed relationship with the United States.
This is a man I can work with,
he had told Hejazi that night.
We can make good things happen together
.

And then the call a few hours ago … an openly irate Obama, feeling deceived and misled. He was straightforward with his diction, but Baraheri could detect the underlying sentiment.

“He made demands?” Hejazi asked.

Baraheri nodded. “He has given me forty-eight hours to cease any further attempts to spread the virus, to provide detailed information on how it was created, arrest all people associated with Masood currently being harbored in Iran, and provide American intelligence services with the necessary information to do the same concerning whatever members continued to operate on American soil.”

“And if not?”

Baraheri looked at his old friend. “He said he would have no choice but to take military action.”

After a pause, Hejazi said, “Do you think he means it?”

Baraheri leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. This was a question he had been considering since the call ended two hours ago. He decided to leave it alone for the moment. “Do you have any idea who might be behind this?”

“There are several groups, I believe. Several individuals who have tried from time to time. We know this. American intelligence know this.”

“So that’s why they think it was us?”

“Very likely.”

“But do any have the
means
to orchestrate something so intricate, then execute it?”

“Possibly.”

“This is not simple science here, my friend. Creating a virus with this kind of power requires time, money, research, expertise.… Then having it delivered to the American mainland and creating false evidence pointing to us. Who would—?”

Baraheri’s eyes widened. “Do you truly think it could be Shalizeh?”

“I do,” Hejazi replied. “In my heart, I do.”

“Do we have any idea of his whereabouts?”

Hejazi was already getting up. “I’ll check into it at once.”

“Thank you. And Sanjar?”

Hejazi was at the door. He stopped and turned. “Yes?”

“Quickly.”

“Of course.”

*   *   *

It was called Little Nelly’s Little Deli—a name that Cara Porter had characterized as “grating on my nerves like a phone solicitor.” But it also served its purpose quite adequately, at least in her and Ben’s and Michael’s eyes. It was their new hideaway, tucked into the quiet town of Riverdale, about twenty minutes west of Ramsey, in a dainty strip mall. And in spite of the town’s proximity to the outbreak, it seemed oddly isolated, as if there were a protective force field around it, and the citizens weren’t aware of the crisis unfolding beyond their borders.

They found Nelly’s purely by chance three days ago. Ben suggested they all get together for lunch, preferably someplace where they were unlikely to encounter members of the media. This was in response not just to their rapidly diminishing patience but also Sheila Abbott’s declaration that she alone would be the official distributor of public information. “The more obscure, the better,” Ben had said, setting down the search criteria. Michael suggested they look in Riverdale based on the statistical evidence that it had gone relatively unaffected. There seemed to be one anomalous area in every outbreak that fell into this category. So they piled into Ben’s car—writers and photographers had already identified Michael’s convertible—and drove around until Nelly’s caught their attention.
SOUPS AND SANDWICHES AND SO MUCH MORE!
blared the cheerful subtitle, to Cara’s further irritation.