The SONG of SHIVA (13 page)

“Sounds promising,” Nora said. “At least we will all be headed in the same direction.” Perhaps it was the ambiance and the wine, the exhaustion accompanying another long day, but Nora felt as though she, Pandavas, and Tardieu were thinking in perfect synchronicity.

Tardieu repeated the wrinkles he had added to Nora’s original suggestion. “Allow the advanced HM algorithms to pinpoint when and where the next outbreak will most likely take place and identify the structure of the anti-telomerase trigger ― perhaps even determine why the sequence exists and how it operates... Developing a vaccine demands we find those answers as well.”

“Please, Jean-George, one unreasonable request at a time,” Pandavas deferred.

Nora saw her opening. “But they’re important questions, Atma. Answering them is crucial. Personally, I think this mysterious trigger is the most intriguing. By far. Understand it and a vaccine is possible, even if it’s something jury-rigged and experimental. I’m still hoping to save lives. I’ve got two people back in Atlanta who could use a miracle.”

“It’s certainly something we can investigate,” Pandavas agreed. “But I wouldn’t hold out much hope that anything useful will arrive soon enough to help your friends.”

The caveat was not unexpected. Still, while the exotic atmosphere of the Ayutt Haya lounge surrounded her, in the company of two of the most brilliant scientific minds on the planet, Nora felt herself settling into a pleasant, enveloping dream where anything
was
possible. She hadn’t spoken with Kosoy since yesterday, but it might as well have been a lifetime ago. Leaning back in her chair, she invited the complex aroma of pinot noir to sooth her, every breath an invisible bouquet, the rich liquid swirling in its crystal chalice. She was reveling in the languid atmospherics, a brief reprieve from weeks of uninterrupted stress, filled with buoyant conversation and a future fragrant with possibilities. For a suspended instant she was even capable of loosing the bonds of her maternal responsibilities, oblivious to their normally persistent tug. The hectic pace of the past week, which had transitioned from congressional testimony to the more frantic pursuit of the TAI virus, was frozen in space and time. She was content to let the metered hum of conversation sing to her, its tones sweet and soothing as a lullaby.

Pandavas and Tardieu were now discussing the frontiers opening to practitioners of modern investigative molecular biology. Much like space exploration had revealed long-hidden secrets of the physical universe, they contended, the elegant dance of the double helix would soon unveil the very essence of evolutionary life. In her somewhat altered state, Nora listened as though it were the music of the spheres.

“You mean like sound and resonance,?” Tardieu asked. “Random collisions of organic constructs producing ever-evolving mutations, which in turn interact with and impact all of nature? Bouncing back and forth through action and reaction, producing the very biologic reality which philosophers of every era attempt to capture in what are later proven to be wrong-headed explanations for why things are as they are. Scientists just happen to be this era’s philosophers.”

“Sound and its echo? Not quite, Jean-George. You make it sound too ephemeral. It’s not sheet music for some self-creating symphony. Even the spiraling generation of fractal images would be a poor analogy, though that is one of the basic concepts at the heart of hypothecated modeling.

“Like fractal generation, however, the deeper our gaze penetrates in any direction, the more expansive and immersing the universe grows. A corollary to old Heisenberg’s uncertainty principle. Penetrate far enough and, who knows? You might stumble upon the true nature of reality.

“But also, like many other great scientific mysteries – the Big Bang, the speed of light or absolute zero ― the approach only multiplies the expansion of hyperbolic trajectory until, just before reaching the perceived objective, the unknown variables and constricting limitations become infinite. Still, the way I see it, the double helix is more substantial, more concrete. It’s not simply a ‘design’ or blueprint ― but more a biological palimpsest, repeatedly being erased and overwritten – operating more like a
device
― a self-instructing tool.”

“And you’re suggesting researchers should
use
this ‘tool’,” Tardieu stated rather than asked.

“Why not? In a rudimentary way, humanity has been working with the same tool set since the birth of selective agriculture and domesticated breeding of livestock,” Pandavas explained. “Though much more complex, organic chemistry and genetic manipulation are simply the next step in a process that began more than seven thousand years ago. If not you and I, Jean-George, it’s sure to be someone else. Oh, I admit, DNA is something more than an elaborate machine. But how much more? Who can say? And really be certain. This fragile thing called sentient existence. The cruel limits of mortal understanding...”   

Pandavas sounded more like a wistful nineteenth century Lake Country poet attempting to express his limited ability to perceive the universe than the world’s paramount microbiologist. At this point in scientific inquiry, Nora could see, even the greatest theorists were reduced to analogy and metaphor. Even so, she sat enrapt. Unfortunately, just as Pandavas paused, nearing the summit of his iterating soliloquy, she inadvertently looked at her watch. Reality immediately returned and with it her responsibilities.

“I’m really terribly sorry, gentlemen. Personally, I could listen to your music all night. But the CDC and my daily reports beckon. It’s already midmorning in Atlanta. I’ll need Director Kosoy’s nod before I can accept your offer, Atma, but it certainly conforms to the responsibilities of my assignment. I don’t foresee any problems. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“We’re breaking ground at two separate sites tomorrow,” Pandavas explained. “The local crews want to satisfy the edicts of the Thai spirit-house propitiation ceremonies before the soil is disturbed and I’m expected to attend. You’re welcome to return to London with us on the Innovac corporate jet after we wrap up here this weekend.”

“I ought to head back too,” Tardieu added. Standing up from the table and touching two fingers above his right eyebrow he added, “Goodnight, Atma. It was a pleasure seeing you again. If you can pull yourself away any time before you leave, let me know.”

He then turned to Nora. “Let’s sit down with Ms. Yin tomorrow, Nora. If, as I expect, your superiors determine that you are likely to be more productive in England, we’ll make arrangements for her team to follow you.”

“Thanks so much, both of you,” Nora said, stifling a yawn. “I’ll be speaking with each of you again, soon,”

As the two men rose, she added, “You can see JG to his taxi, Atma. I can find my room unescorted, gentlemen.”  

Three minutes later, she walked into her suite. In the darkened bedroom, on the nightstand phone next to her bed, the red call-received light was blinking. Hesitating, her grip frozen on the doorknob, she closed the door. Why the sudden anxiety? Switching on a light, she released the doorknob and walked to where the insistent siren flashed, a vague, irrational ague in her stomach. Sitting on the bed next to the phone, she lifted the receiver.

“You have two messages,” said a pleasantly nuanced recorded voice. The sky hadn’t fallen. She was relieved. “Press ‘one’ to listen to your messages now. Press ‘two’ to–―” Nora hit the one button.

“Message ‘one’ was received at 7:46 P.M. today,” the recorded voice acknowledged.

“Nora, it’s Marty. It’s important, but doesn’t demand interrupting whatever you’re doing at the moment. I’m afraid the news isn’t good. Jarbeau and Gilbert are both critical. I don’t want to burden you with more bad news ― it’s just one damned thing after another, I know ― but Hank Jackson, another member of the original clean-up squad, fell ill overnight. Same symptoms. Same prognosis.

“The only silver lining ― and it’s not much ― is that the infections remain confined to the original quarantine. But Wiznecki is demanding assurances we’ll be able to hold the line here. She also intimated that heads may roll if we can’t. I don’t need to tell you that if we can’t, a little guillotine action is going to be the least of our worries.

“If the administration wasn’t so preoccupied with the recent embassy bombing, they might already have forced us to fall on our swords. I can’t really argue with Madam Secretary’s veiled threat, can you? It did happen on our watch. So if you can offer the slightest glimmer of hope, please, call me. Time is extremely short. Thanks.”

A click, a brief dial tone and then dead air.

Hank Jackson? The name didn’t even sound familiar.

“You may save or delete message ‘one’, move to message ‘two’, or―” Nora hurriedly hit the star key. “Message ‘two’ was received at 9:11 P.M. today,” the robotic voice announced. By her watch it was only 9:24 now. This call must have come in while she was coming up the elevator from the lounge.

“Dr. Carmichael? This is Eshwar Narayan. We met today at the upgrade demonstration. I was hoping to schedule a meeting with you in the next day or two, perhaps for breakfast before you head out tomorrow? I am also keeping a room here at the Ayutt Haya. Please contact me in room 2320 at your earliest convenience. Dr. Pandavas has asked me to speak with you about the plight of your coworkers back in Atlanta and how Innovac may be of assistance.”

Nora saved the second message and, breathing deeply, hit the respond-dial key. Dr. Narayan could wait. She heard the click of a pickup at the other end of the line, followed immediately by Megan McBride’s voice, “Hello? CDC Director Kosoy’s Office.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Three may keep a secret, if two of them are dead.

Benjamin Franklin :
Poor Richard’s Almanac

Lyköan was pushing north on Thanon Ratchaprarop, the unrelenting downpour like a thick syrup pasting his clothing to his flesh. In the heavens, an oppressive lightshow hammered heavy-metal, flashing into a face turned like flint against the elements. All around him, funnels of steam rose wraithlike from random gutter drains and underground vents, reflecting in ghostly relief the panorama of multicolored street-level neon.

Piercing the din of rain, lightning and thunder, an army of blabber-boards assaulted him from nearly every open-air Pratunam Market stall, their insistent pleas making concentration nearly impossible. Several dozen of the abusive animated marquees were strategically positioned on oscillating brackets along his route, ideally positioned to accost pedestrians as they attempted to move along the market’s perimeter. Although forced to accept their unwelcome pleading and random chatter, first in Thai, then Chinese and finally in English, he accelerated his pace.

Broadcasting in multiple languages only made the amplified blather more distracting ― and annoying. Technology for identifying a potential target’s native language had yet to be developed. Maybe with the next generation. Most of the screens were advertising personal care products or entertainment venues, attempting to capture the attention of every passerby who came within three meters of motion-sensor-activation range. Damned effective too. Their persistence paid off. Couldn’t avoid them. Supremely obtrusive ― and effective.

Sure, look and smell my best when I’m celebrating with a night on the town
, Lyköan caught himself mimicking sarcastically. But he didn’t and he wasn’t.

The blatant invasion of privacy was the price one paid for traveling the streets on foot. No modern city had escaped the onslaught of the new technology, particularly commercial precincts. This market was one of Bangkok’s worst offenders. Considering the elements, the most direct route home still made sense. 

The offensive hawking would not last much longer. He could endure the abuse for a few more minutes. By the time he reached the Narcotics Suppression Office near the Anutsawari Chaisamoraphum Victory Monument, the voices would fade. Beyond that point the market would morph into the more organic urban stretch of Soi Atthawimon and a long string of bars and brothels with its own brand of marketing agents. It wouldn’t be long. He was moving at full stride through the downpour now, eyes fixed on the steam vents, the lightning and the shooting stars of driving rain.

A bolt of lightning pierced the leaking blackness overhead. Before the thunder had filled the void following the flash, he ducked under a low-hanging scarlet awning. Beneath the canopy, a gaudy expanse of gilded Buddhas sparkled, smiling into a sea of carved carnelian nagas, nameless delicate white porcelain female deities and rosy cheeked votaries, all for sale to devotees in three convenient sizes: pocket, desk, and altar.

The light reflecting off the polished surfaces was so dazzling that sinking back into the darkness of the downpour came as something of a comfort. There was also comfort in the sound and feel of his shoes sloshing through the rainwater runoff streaming across the sidewalk and into the gutter. Grunting, he leaned harder into the wind.

Almost like a film fade and flicker, in less than a block the streetscape transitioned from one of commercial technology to a seamier backdrop of open sex trade barrooms, the thick and oddly enticing aroma of alcohol and tobacco suspended in cloistered air escaping into the rainy night through open doorways. The sounds of amplified music and lively conversation dopplered in pitch as he approached then passed each bar-front entrance.

At least his thoughts were his own again. Only the occasional jabbering barker, wondering how he could possibly prefer tonight’s dreary inclemency to the inviting interior of his or her luxurious establishment. Thankfully, the rain kept most of the more organic human pheromones inside.
Be grateful for the little things
. His fortitude was being tested as it was. With hands shoved into soaking pants pockets, he leaned more determinedly into the driving rain and forced the details of his current plight into focus.

He was angry at himself for losing his temper. Losing his temper
again
. Angry at Whitehall for abandoning him.
Really
angry at the Innovac crew for belittling him. Hell, he was even mad at the weather for making this trek back to the apartment so downright miserable. He knew he was ruminating uncontrollably ― and really didn’t give a shit. Let the damned Tanner ― his oft-submerged, devilish alter personality ― have its head. Out here alone his personal thoughts were in no danger of escaping into regrettable discourse like in that earlier scene. No one here to be offended or take umbrage.

How could I let things get so out of hand like that
―
spiral so out of control
?
Storming out on my bread and butter
.
That’s sure to come back to haunt me
.

So busy burning bridges
...
Innovac’s probably ready to pull the plug
.
Mr. Loose Cannon
―
why keep him around
?
It’s been dueling egos with Gordon and Narayan almost from the start
―
though I’m still not ready to concede that’s all my doing
.

Julie Prentice is a different story
.
Not nearly as dangerous
.
Certainly not as threatening
.
And God, really drop-dead gorgeous
.

And finally, Pandavas
.
There’s trouble
―
for sure
.
One of the most powerful corporate chieftains on the planet, but he sure seems to have a weird compulsion to play to an audience
.
Any personality like that
―
one that demands constant ego-stroking
...
The bigger they get the more they need it, I guess
...

This slog home may be miserable, but blowing off steam, cooling down in the rain, is better than exchanging angry threats with the new bosses
.
Should’ve left sooner
―
though it might’ve been smarter to catch a taxi
.
I’d already be home, dry and online. Scheduling the transport adjustments Innovac is demanding
.

God, what a fiasco
.
Slightest provocation
,
Lyköan
,
and you immediately turn into your own worst enemy
.
Ever do anything smart while flying off the handle
?
Where’d it get you tonight
?
Completely soaked
.
Freezing in the rain
.
Fuck it
...

Dwell upon the details of the job at hand
,
not your personal shortcomings
.
The human brain’s designed to figure things out
.
So put yours in gear
...

Once he had turned onto Soi Wattana Yothin the cityscape abruptly abandoned its red light district trappings. The rain continued its unremitting beat, driving into the side of his face. Some of the droplets hung suspended from his eyebrows, but most washed down his face, pouring faucet-like off nose and chin. Attempting to cover his head or protect his clothing was nothing more than wasted energy. The downpour could have added another humbling dimension to the introspection, but it provided just the opposite. After running the gauntlet of the blabber-screens and passing unscathed through Hooker Central, this present bludgeoning by the elements felt almost ennobling. 

His thoughts strayed back to business. As soon as he got home he’d link to International I/E. He could review the options available. Shipping God-only-knew how many oversized containers via air transport. Not a large universe of vendors or time slots. No advance notice. It was going to be expensive. Real expensive: Moving tons of last-minute materials by air in the finite flight space available. Or hire charters. Even more expensive. How much any of this might cost had been one concern the Innovac people never seemed to raise. Was cost really inconsequential or would it only become an issue after he presented Gordon with the bill?

Financial hurdles don’t even raise a blip on Innovac’s radar.
How much money does even a single blockbuster drug generate
?
Enough to make millions of pounds or trillions of baht in shipping expenses insignificant considerations
,
I guess
.
All they care about is bringing the project in on schedule
.
Budget
?
Obviously secondary
.
Still
,
I really hate operating blind like this
.
Never seen such a
goddamned need-to-know operation
...

* * *

When he finally trudged up the Panthanrumpath Apartments’ naga-flanked main stairway, the thunderstorm had, if anything, become more violent. What had started off as an unremarkable typhoon had become absolutely diluvian during the trek home. Lyköan was chilled to the marrow.

Once inside the courtyard, he headed straight for the beacon above the familiar stairway through a barely translucent wall of water. For the briefest instant, in a lightning bolt reflection, his third floor apartment window was lit up like a shadow-show, illuminating the interior in eerie strobe-like display. Reflection and shadow. Objects moving in a macabre, unsettling dance that suddenly made this homecoming much less inviting
.

Just the glint of lightning behind me
, he assured himself. Rain-slicked panes in a vast panel along the apartment building wall. Not important. Just an urgency to get in out of the rain. Only after these fleeting embers of observation had sputtered and died did he notice the ragged heap lying under the eve, almost to the centimeter where he had left her that morning. Goosoo Maansa Ban. His ‘Broken Blossom’. A huddled mass every bit as wet as the sodden blanket on which she lay.

Like Jesus perceiving the crowd in Matt’s Gospel, he was suddenly and completely overwhelmed with pity, realizing in that instant that this poor creature possessed no backup plan. He was it. How could he have escaped indictment for so long? What unremitting callousness. He felt merciless. The depths were rising up inside him now. He viewed the reflection as if in a mirror. With irresistible force an unbidden long-submerged angst burst forth.

Karen, oh my God, Karen. Where are you now?

From whence do such things spring? He bent down and the dog started.

My God, she was asleep
!
She’s been sleeping through this hurricane
?

“C’mon, you’re comin’ inside with me,” he offered, knowing she did not understand a word of it. Here was intuition of another order and he was going to obey its direction.

She rose and followed after him as he stepped into the stairway entry, unlocked the wrought iron gate and held it open. Once inside, she shook the storm from her coat. They climbed the stairs together, side by side.

Six flights up and down to the end of the third floor hallway. Lyköan stood at his door, inserted the key in the lock, Broken Blossom obediently standing in his shadow. The key turned. The internal bolt drew back. And so did Blossom. Was it the sound of the creaking door? He tried to tug her into the half-opened doorway by the scruff of her neck. No luck. He pulled harder. Her resistance stiffened.    

“Come-on, you stupid mutt!” he pleaded. “I’m offering you a goddamned warm place to sleep. What the hell is your problem?”

Bending over the animal, he grabbed her around the front haunches with one arm while his other hand held the doorknob unsteadily, positioned on both knees now, almost face to face with the uncooperative bitch. He let go of the doorknob, held Blossom with both arms, and awkwardly kicked back at the half-open door. 

In rapid succession, three bullets tore through the door and frame centimeters above his head, spraying splinters and dust into the air, onto his hair and down the back of his neck. Diving instinctively for the floor, he rolled to the side of the doorway. Another four rounds exploded through the plaster in a line across the wall. One of the slugs sliced two belt loops from his pants and, traveling through the hallway carpet, embedded itself with a dull thud into the hardwood floor, kicking up a puff of dust. Two of the four slugs had whizzed past his head, he had felt one zip past his right cheek. But he hadn’t heard the fourth round or seen any evidence of where it had struck. Why not? There was a sharp ache in his belly. He looked down, noticed the crimson stain growing on his shirt, soaking into his pants, spreading out into a widening pool on the intricately patterned hallway carpet.   

An excited staccato of shouting in some unfamiliar language poured through the bullet holes in the wall. The door must have swung open and bounced shut again when he had kicked it. This detail seemed damned important for some reason. As he was thinking this, a dull crash echoed. The door shuddered. A second impact and the door burst open, splintering pieces of frame and sending snapped hinges flying from their mountings. Falling lengthwise, the door crashed to the floor, pieces of the frame arcing through the air, landing in a haphazard semicircle of rising dust as two short, dark, nondescript figures sprang through the now gaping doorway. Two steps into the hall they stopped, towering over Lyköan, one pointing a handgun at his head.