The SONG of SHIVA (40 page)

Lyköan put his arm around her shoulders, felt the heartbreaking disillusionment radiate into his flesh like a plume of morning fog rising from a graveyard. His mouth filled with the taste of bitter myrtle. The odor of a million acrid campfires presaging battle assailed his nostrils. Tiny sparks, mere pinpoints of blue-white light, circled her head in a rapid, oscillating orbit. Through the half-filled lounge a haunting, primordial howl reverberated, the anguished expression of a terrified beast baying at the unknown. His own response would have been the same had he only possessed the courage to give it voice.

Meeting here had become a routine. Once each day, the three of them would exchange information gathered during the previous twenty-four hours. Nora would journey for the hour’s reprieve, dividing the full day’s twenty-hour shift with this hour of debriefing.

Selecting the lounge had been an odd choice. For one thing it was far from private. For another, only Fremont was drinking. By the time Egan and Nora arrived, he was already finishing his second single malt. Since his transformation, however, Lyköan had found he could no longer tolerate alcohol of any sort. Nora feared risking even a glass of wine. She had slept no more than four hours during any night in the past week. Miraculously none the worse for wear, she still thought a glass of cranberry juice, the real thing, not that fructose-saturated ‘cocktail’, would be safest. Lyköan was nursing a warm bottle of Schweppes Bitter Lemon.

“Sorry the news couldn’t provide more closure for you, Carmichael. But I do have something considerably more interesting for Lyköan.” His eyes traveled to Egan’s face. “Concerns your would-be protégé and former sidekick, Sawadviphachai.”

“What about him?”

“Had some friends review his phone record. Went back more than a year...”

“Learn anything interesting?” Lyköan couldn’t deny he had often wondered who had been on the other end of those incessant, interrupting calls that seemed to follow Jimmy wherever he went.

“You could say that.”

“You’re planning on telling me, right?” he asked when Felix wasn’t immediately forthcoming.

“We’ve come a long way in only a few days haven’t we, Lyköan? Grown almost ― close.”

“Cut the crap, Fremont! If you’ve got something to spill, spill it.”

“I’m just asking you to admit it. You can do that much, can’t you buddy?”

“Okay, okay! Yes Felix, I’m satisfied we did the right thing throwing in with you. You’re a regular patriot, honest as the day is long, courageous to a fault, and a damned handsome man too. What the hell else do you need?”

“Just to hear you say it ― and with such conviction. It’s music to these weary ears. Let me savor the victory just a little longer, bathe in the glow of success where the illustrious Lyköan has failed.”

“You’ve made your point. Don’t press your luck.”

“Oh, but this information is priceless. Worth every filthy pigsty I might demand you wallow through to hear it. And not just one revelation ― but two.”

Lyköan had tired of the strained repartee. Maybe silence would succeed where rancor had not.

After a brief pause Fremont asked, “Why do you think Mr. Sawadviphachai, cousin to the great king of Thailand and all around patriotic citizen, would spend countless hours in conference calls with just about every international medical company that had ever considered testing the Southeast Asian business waters?”

“Did he?”

“His goddamn phone bills read like a
Who’s Who
of the Dow Medical Technologies ETF. Hundreds of calls. Name a recognizable pharma or medtech company and it probably appears at least once.”

“Any idea why?” Nora asked.

“Renegade lobbying, Thai-style. And his bank accounts speak volumes.”

“Snuck a peek at those too, did you?” Lyköan asked.

“Once the pixies go to work, they have a habit of leaving no stone unturned.”

“And the result?”

“The little bugger is worth more than seven billion baht.”

Lyköan performed the mental calculation and then whistled softly. “Christ, that’s more than two hundred million U.S.” The ever-new designer wardrobe now stood totally explained. A piddling expense for someone possessing such a fortune.

“By no means a penny-ante operation. Started off slow ― infrequent small deposits ― but over time they added up. Influence peddling, if worked properly, is a lucrative business.

“And a tidy portion of that enormous sum was coming directly from the Ministry of Health. For services rendered, don’t you suppose? Unfortunately, exactly what those services were can’t be gleaned from phone records or bank balances.”

“Unless you resort to torture,” Lyköan suggested. Not such an unthinkable option now that half the truth had come to light. “I don’t think one of the wealthiest men in Thailand is going to come right out and tell you. The only way I learn anything from him is by listening to what he doesn’t say ― especially what he adamantly denies.”

“So who was he working for,” Nora asked. “Innovac?”

“Sometimes,” Fremont answered. “Though I think, if his newly acquired net worth is any indication, he was working mostly for himself.”

“You said there were two revelations.” Lyköan hadn’t forgotten.

“The other occurred the day your apartment was burglarized and you ended up a guest at Bumrungrad Hospital. Within hours, half a billion baht found its way from a Swiss bank into our beaming boy’s favorite charity: himself.”

Lyköan looked at Fremont. He should have expected this punch line after the setup.

“For services rendered,” Fremont concluded, since Lyköan refused to take the bait. “Delivery of your stolen tablet, don’t you think? Sold to the highest bidder. We may never learn who that was, but we can probably create a short list of likely suspects.”

“Pays to work for people with deep pockets,” was all Lyköan could manage. Let Fremont talk. He was doing such a wonderful job.

“Want my guess?” Felix asked and then answered his own question. “It wasn’t Innovac. They already had you in their hip pocket ― had absolutely no reason to attempt such a bungling smash and grab. More likely one of Innovac’s pharma competitors, or the Thai government itself.”

It might be nice to know who your enemies were, but it was far easier to count your friends. You only needed the fingers of one hand for that.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Iamque catervatim dat stragem atque aggerat

Turpi dilapsa cadavera tabo.

(And now in droves she deals out death

Piling up fetid corpses foul.)

Publius Vergilius Maro :
Impius Furor

Tallying the dead has an extensive pedigree that stretches back long before Herodotus. According to the twisted logic employed, the significance of any particular event can best be determined by the height to which the bodies can be heaped afterwards. When measured against this ancient yardstick, the emerging pandemic had begun displaying truly extraordinary potential.

In front of the flickering Ayutt Haya suite’s wall monitor, Lyköan shifted uncomfortably in an overstuffed chair, forcing himself to concentrate on the parade of grim images as shades of film noir swirled around the sitting room. It had been days since he had intentionally ventured into an American network broadcast, those unconscionable close-ups of bedridden victims struggling for one last breath and wide-angle shots of morgues filled to overflowing, surrounded by naked corpses stacked like cordwood.

British Broadcasting had a reputation to protect and so never plumbed the same prurient depths quite so deeply. Even when responsibly reported, however, tragic news could still prove to be difficult viewing.

“Evidence suggests, at minimum,” the commentator announced, “thirteen thousand deaths in the four southern cities of Narathaiwat, Pattani, Hat Yai and Songkhla.” Behind him, a dark, ugly wound surrounded the affected cities on a relief map of peninsular Thailand.

“Unfortunately, the complete collapse of the healthcare infrastructure under the sheer volume of victims makes an exact count impossible.”

Beneath the detached headlines and sound bites, Lyköan knew, lay thousands of grisly details the tight-lipped government was doing everything in its power to silence. The full enormity of the disaster would never be made public while the authorities possessed any power to conceal it. Confirmed by other sources, however, Lyköan knew, the true death toll exceeded the official count at least fivefold.

“Isolated pockets of illness have also been reported in Trang, Nakhon Si Thamnarat and Surat Thani.” Creeping northward on the map, each city’s name appeared as it was mentioned.

Also going unreported was the military barricade that had been hastily thrown across the narrow Isthmus of Kra between Rangong and Pak Nam Lang Suan in an attempt to stem the crushing northward exodus of panic-stricken survivors. The strategy might have succeeded had it given even passing consideration to the entrepreneurial spirit of human nature. Unfortunately, even before the last roadblock was erected, the first fifty thousand baht bribe had already found its way into willing hands. Soon afterwards, a lucrative human cargo-smuggling business was happily dispersing viral carriers into every region of the uninfected countryside as fast as the cash could change hands.

“Although Malaysia announced the closure of its border with Thailand within hours of the first reported illness in Pattani, government sources, speaking on condition of anonymity, say there have been isolated cases in the northern Malay cities of Kota Bahru and Keroh.”

Vietnam had closed its borders even before Malaysia, effectively sealing off the country from prying eyes. Refugees pouring into neighboring Cambodia were the sole source of information about conditions inside the country. Tales of entire cities being placed under quarantine, their perimeters patrolled by troops with shoot-to-kill orders, could not be confirmed.

Thankfully, the news was not universally negative. Japan appeared to have successfully contained the Osaka outbreak, limiting the death toll to eighteen individuals from four families. But for every one containment success, there were two new reports of clusters appearing in places as diverse as Istanbul and Sidney.

As terrifyingly bleak as the news was, it was not without a few truly oddball angles and dark humor. Plagues arrive replete with all the requisite bells and whistles, including their own set of unspoken class, religious and racial undertones. Accusational logic is woven deep into the fabric of human nature. When exposed to a mortal threat, it often proves irresistible. Watching the broadcast over Egan’s shoulder, Nora rubbed the crown of his stiffly bristled skull with her hand.

“Don’t go off the deep end on me, mister,” she pleaded softly. “There hasn’t been a single infection anywhere in Africa or North or South America. A few days and we’ll have vaccines. Maybe not perfect, but serviceable.”

Even as the words left her mouth, she wanted to take them back. Yesterday’s phone call to HHS had confirmed that the CDC was bracing for the inevitable, readying contingency plans every bit as drastic as anything already imposed in Asia. The vaccines would be welcomed, but they were far too little and considerably too late.

“So much for the wishful thinking,” Lyköan replied, turning in his chair. “What about the second virus?”

“We’ll know more about that in another day or two. The last viral shipment never left the Node. Interpol’s made arrests. There have been aerosol seizures in the—”

“Don’t kid yourself,” Lyköan interrupted. “You know better than just about anybody that one uncontained outbreak is all they need.”

“That’s why we keep at it as hard as we can. We don’t let the bastards win.”

Swallowing a last mouthful of cold coffee, she placed the cup down and picked up her double-bud from the end table. Leaning over, she kissed Egan on the neck.

“You and Felix have fun today,” she whispered into his ear, then headed for the door. Like all others, today only contained twenty-four hours. She intended to make the most of them.

* * *

“I think we may have turned up something,” Fremont said from across a Scotch-filled tumbler. “Up in the mountains of Trang Province. A broadcast appeal to the locals that the elves picked up. Something about ‘salvation is at hand for those who are willing.’ Mean anything to you?”

“Nothing,” Lyköan admitted with a shake of his head. “Sounds like more doomsday chatter. There's been a lot of that going around lately.”

“There hadn’t been a peep from that area in days,” Fremont countered. “The pointy-ears figured anybody still alive would be scared shitless ― afraid to even venture outside ― not punching in at their radio station day jobs. Anyway, this sounded ― different.”

Lyköan gave him a ‘so-go-on’ shrug.

“So we pointed our cameras at the transmission point and asked ’em to smile pretty. Got some real interesting shots. Here, take a look.”

Drawing a handful of glossy eight-by-tens from a manila folder, Felix spread them across the table. Beneath that table, Blossom’s muzzle lay on Lyköan’s thigh, saffron-tinted plumes of tranquilizing energy emanating in regular oscillating waves from the edges of her drooling upper lip as he stroked her head.

“We have no idea what lies underground,” Fremont explained, pointing to a particular photo. “But this huge area of leveled vegetation and mounds of freshly-dug jungle don’t jibe with cassava plantation cultivation ― I can tell you that much.”

Lyköan leaned forward for a closer look, enveloped in a bouquet of phantom scents ― burnt rose petal and high summer honeysuckle ― circulating above the kitchen table, perceptual tracings rapidly firing across synapses in his olfactory lobes.

Fremont drew a jeweler’s loupe from his breast pocket. “Take a closer look at this bare spot on the western edge of the excavation.”

Lyköan saw the dark, angular shadow indicating an incline into the sloping mountainside.

“Looks like an entrance.”

“The government claims to know absolutely nothing about it. But your friend, Sawadviphachai? I’m thinking he might. He sure knows more than he’s admitting. Maybe it’s time we paid him a visit ― had ourselves a real heart-to-heart. You up for it?”

“Only if I can I bring the thumbscrews,” Lyköan replied.

* * *

“General Wattanasin promise Ministry of Health,” Jimmy whined, wincing as Lyköan pushed his head against the rental car’s side window. “Infection controlled.”

“Who the hell is General Wattanasin?” Lyköan asked, enjoying every second of this interrogation. Enjoying it far too much. Squeezing the youth’s corded neck muscles, he smashed Jimmy’s face roughly into the front seatback.

“Thai military?” Fremont asked from behind the wheel as he drove down the deserted gravel road.

“He patriot. Thai patriot,” Jimmy’s tiny voice gurgled. “Carry out quarantine orders.”

Lyköan was breathing hard, his head surrounded by a blaze of sparkling fireflies, tracing brilliant phosphene patterns throughout the car’s interior, leaving in their wake the perfumed aroma of raw, sweat-soaked pheromones ― pure animal fear ― feral, pungent and loathsome. In his ears, he could feel his pulse pounding, tapping out a drum roll of urgency and anger.

“What orders?” he demanded.

“Contain epidemic. At all cost.”

Holding the twig-like neck with one hand, he dragged Jimmy’s head forward behind both front seatbacks, kneeled hard into the boy’s back, forcing his face towards the floor. With the other hand he pulled taut a length of gaudy silken tie and hissed, “But that’s not how it’s working out, is it? So what’s next?”

“This looks isolated enough,” Fremont interjected, pulling the car off the road in a cloud of dust.

“Even if flu escape quarantine ― government must survive.”

“Survive how?” Lyköan asked. “Anybody can be infected. You
―
me
―
the
king himself. How did they plan to protect the government?”

“I do not know.”

Yeah, I’ll bet
, Lyköan thought.
Time for a strategy shift
. Tapping Fremont on the shoulder he lifted Jimmy roughly by the scruff of his neck, pulled the little urchin’s face close so they were now nose to nose, saw his own enraged face reflected in the dark pools of Jimmy’s hugely dilated pupils.

“What do you say we take a little stroll into the jungle?” he suggested in a raspy whisper. “Clear your head. Who knows? Maybe you’ll remember something.”

Fremont cut the engine and, turning around in the front seat, idly rested a dark handgun on the passenger seatback so their captive could not avoid seeing it.

“This is where it gets dicey, Mr. Sawadviphachai,” Fremont said with a nod towards the weapon. “Whether everything flows smooth and calm as the Chao Phraya from here on out or blows up in your face is entirely up to you. Please keep that in mind.”

Exiting from behind the wheel, Fremont circled to the back door facing the jungle, where Jimmy sat trembling. Opening the door, he motioned with the weapon. Jimmy refused the invitation.

“Don’t make this difficult,” Lyköan grumbled, shoving their reluctant captive out of the back seat and after exiting behind him, slamming the door. Jimmy jumped at the sound. Standing almost frozen, inches from the car, he began straightening his jacket nervously, wide eyes fixed on Fremont’s hand and the weapon it held.

Pushing Jimmy away from the vehicle, Lyköan draped a comforting arm around the boy’s scarecrow-like shoulders and pulled him close. Reaching inside the gorgeously tailored Caraceni pale yellow suit jacket ― not some Pat Pong market knock-off, but the genuine article ― he emptied both interior pockets, dropped the contents on the ground and, after surveying the scattered items, crushed the double-bud with a heel.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he said with a snicker. “What a relief. No more of those annoying interruptions. C’mon, let’s get away from the road.”

Lyköan grabbed a handful of jacket at Jimmy's shoulder and the three men moved silently into the jungle. Arriving at a level clearing in the undergrowth a few minutes later, Lyköan pulled a thick black zip-tie from his pocket and twisted one of Jimmy’s arms behind his back. The boy resisted, blubbering in terrified panic.

“Jee-zus, Jimmy. It’s just a precaution. We don’t want you running off and hurting yourself. Play ball with us ― answer a few lousy questions ― and you got nothing to worry about. We just want some information, that’s all.”

“What information? I know nothing.”

“Don’t sell yourself short, pal,” Lyköan replied, pulling down the young man's other arm and strapping both wrists together with a tug. “You know a helluva lot more than we do.” He spun the boy around.

“Lyköan, we don’t have time for this shit,” Fremont inserted on cue. “On the ground, asshole.” Hooking one foot deftly behind the youth’s quaking knees, Fremont grabbed a handful of jacket at the shoulder as Jimmy fell forward, bringing their frightened hostage to a kneeling position on the ground.

Pressing the barrel of the automatic hard against Jimmy’s forehead, he then forced the boy’s head back until their eyes met.

“How deep does this cozy little genocide go?” he demanded, segueing seamlessly into the role of bad kidnapper in their previously scripted routine.

“What you mean?” Jimmy rasped with a look of sheer terror.

“Listen you little shithead,” Fremont swore, nudging Jimmy’s forehead with the gun barrel for emphasis, “you’re not fooling anybody. Either you spill something useful ― right now ― or I pull this goddamned trigger and feed this fucking jungle a little more biomass. Your choice.”