World without Cats (21 page)

“Now just where are we going to get some cats with which to test this vaccine?” asked Noah.

“There are some areas of the country where the epizootic hasn’t yet been reported,” Vera replied. “Northern New England, parts of Texas, Florida, in fact the southern US seems to be relatively free of FHF so far. Also, I hear that the CDC is maintaining a colony of virus-free cats in a kind of bubble room. No humans are allowed in, and all the air is filtered, food sterilized, that sort of thing.”

“Well then,” Noah declared, “I think I’ll put a call in to Kraakmo.”

Angelo confirmed that there was a fairly large, germ-free colony at the CDC, numbering about a hundred cats. He arranged for Noah to send a batch of the virus grown in lion cells, now called the FHF-L strain, to Atlanta for a trial immunization of twelve cats. They were transferred to separate quarters and injected with heat-inactivated virus at two-week intervals. By the second week of September, it was time to challenge them with virus, designated FHF-C, from domestic cats. The immunized cats were removed from their special quarters and placed in a colony of infected cats.

Within a week, all the test cats had become infected with FHF, and, by mid-September, several of them had died. The scientists at the CDC then carried out a second trial, this time with living FHF-L virus. Like the first trial, it did not prove effective. Although the test cats did not become infected with FHF-L, the live lion virus vaccine failed to protect the cats against FHF-C. The lab technicians soon discovered why—antibodies to FHF-L cross-reacted only weakly with FHF-C.

On a day in mid-September, Camarillo became superheated by Santa Ana winds rushing to the sea from the Mojave Desert. The fall semester had begun, and Noah, perusing his lecture notes, needed a break. He wandered down the hall to the lab. Alicia was preparing reagents, while Gary was hunched over his desk, writing. “Working on your thesis?” asked Noah.

Gary, who had been engrossed, looked up, startled. “Yeah, what there is to work on.”

“It’s okay, you know. Your work is sound. It’s not your fault that you can’t bring it to completion.”

“Yeah,” said Gary without conviction. He leaned back, yawned audibly, and stretched. “If only there was some way to make a vaccine without that damned FHF virus …”

Noah noticed an envelope on the desk addressed to the Molecular Biology Institute at UCLA. He picked it up and asked, “What’s this?”

“Oh, I’ve been thinking of applying for a post-doc with Fudderman.”

“Good idea. Might I recommend that you use one of the institute’s envelopes rather than this one? It will make a better impression. The first thing Fudderman is going to see is the envelope, right?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

Noah moved about the lab in a desultory fashion, putting glassware away in the cabinet, chatting with Alicia, and twiddling with various pieces of equipment. He reached up to adjust the temperature of an incubator. Gary continued writing. Suddenly Noah shouted, “The envelope!”

Gary, startled again, said “Okay. I’ll use an institute one.”

“No, I mean the FHF envelope. We don’t need the purified virus—all we need is purified envelope proteins.”

Gary stared at him.
Obviously, the outer proteins of the virus—the envelope—were the important ones needed for immunization. But how can you get purified envelope protein without isolating it from pure virus,
he wondered. Immediately, he too saw the answer. All they had to do was to isolate the envelope genes from a sample of FHF-C virus, make DNA copies, and clone them in
E. coli.
With the system he and Noah had already developed for the MEFA work, they could get the bacteria to make all the envelope protein they needed. It was no problem at all to grow large quantities of
E. coli.
The CDC had enormous vats for that purpose.

“Of course!” cried Gary, “We clone the envelope genes!”

The two young scientists, mentor and student, gaped at one another. Neither was ready to admit the simplicity of the idea. After a long moment, Noah wondered aloud, “How could we have been so dense?”

It was too late in the day to phone Atlanta, so Noah, overly stimulated and disinclined to continue with his lecture notes, phoned Vera to tell her of the plan. He explained to Vera how they would isolate and clone FHF-C envelope genes.

“Sounds promising,” she said.

“It just seems so obvious,” Noah remarked. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of this before.”

“Will this really do the trick, Noah? We’re running out of time—or cats are, anyway.”

“I don’t know. I hope so. If the envelope antigens don’t succeed, maybe one of the other labs will come up with something. The CDC people are still working on it. So are the Russians and a group with the special pathogens branch of the Pasteur Institute.”

Noah phoned Angelo at the CDC. After Noah described his plan, Angelo replied with a hearty, “Marveloose! I will speak with Dr. Bronkowski about having some purified virus sent to you, and I will call you back in a little while. Will you stay by the phone please?”

“You’ve got my cell phone number. I’ll have it with me.”
This is great,
he thought,
Vera was right to get me involved with FHF. To think, I resisted.

Angelo did, indeed, telephone back within the hour. “I am very sorry, Noah, Dr. Bronkowski will not allow the FHF-C virus to leave the laboratory. All work with it must be done in a BSL-4 lab. Your lab is not adequate. I am sorry. If you could come to Atlanta, we could have the work done here.”

Noah’s euphoria vanished. “Oh, for God’s sake, Angelo, what’s the point of restricting FHF to BSL-4 conditions? There are so few cats left.”

“Well, we are afraid that the virus could change again. What if it acquired the ability to infect humans? A virus related to feline leukemia is found endogenously in baboons, you know. And, don’t forget the Ebola part of FHF. We want to make sure that if the virus mutates into something even more dangerous, it doesn’t get out of the lab. I think the boss is being reasonable.”

“But I have samples of the virus in my lab already!” Noah realized he was shouting into the phone. He lowered his voice. “We have a great many samples of infected tissue.”

“Yes, but that is not purified virus,” replied Angelo in measured tones. “As you know, the purified virus is millions of times more concentrated than that in infected tissue. We cannot take any chances.”

“Angelo, the techniques required to clone the genes are complicated and need all sorts of specialized equipment.”

“So you think our labs are primitive? We have state-of-the-art facilities here, Noah. If there is some specialized equipment you need that we don’t have, you can bring it with you. You write up the detailed protocols and what materials and equipment you need, and we’ll work out the details by e-mail or telephone.”

Noah felt sick to his stomach at the new complication. “All right, all right,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll get started on it.”

In zoos across the USA, many species of felines were becoming ill with a FHF-like disease, but rarely did they succumb. The larger cats—pumas, leopards, lions, and the like—seemed to have a much greater resistance to the virus than domestic cats. There was no question that the bigger cats were, in fact, infected with FHF. The CDC had demonstrated that by isolating the virus from the animals.

At the Toronto Zoo, a baboon named Tarzan showed symptoms of hemorrhagic fever. Aware of the possibility of Ebola, Ian Beswick, the primate-keeper, immediately quarantined the animal by placing it in a cage within a larger cage. He put up cautionary warnings to alert the other keepers that the primate should not be handled. When Tarzan died, the corpse was autopsied. The organs displayed evidence of severe hemorrhaging. Blood and tissue samples were tested for Ebola, but the results were equivocal. Beswick, who had been avidly following the news about FHF, sent samples to the CDC in the States to have them tested. The results were positive. It was now clear that primates could acquire FHF.

It had been over three months since Angelo Kraakmo had described FHF to the public on Rita Kenyon’s talk show. At that time Scheherazade, Kenyon’s Persian, had been in good health. In the months that followed, Kenyon had taken pains to keep her feline friend indoors at all times. She made a ritual of washing her hands before preparing the cat’s meals and showered several times a day to wash away any of the virus she might have brought in. Kenyon also sent her clothes to the laundry much more frequently than she had before FHF. She was determined that Scheherazade was not going to become another victim.

Kenyon no longer welcomed her many male friends to her apartment. Instead she either accompanied them to their homes, or they met in hotels. When she explained to them why, most accepted her reason—although a few thought she was a bit eccentric.

One night, an obstreperous fellow named Jason, whom she had been dating for a few months, remarked, “You’re loony, Rita. It’s just a cat, for God’s sake.” Jason slept alone that night; Kenyon told him to take her home and never to call her again.

All these precautions notwithstanding, it was evident to Kenyon that her beloved companion had now become quite ill. It started without warning; the once-beautiful white Persian had become disheveled. She was no longer grooming herself and had lost her appetite. Rita sat on a sofa, the cat on her lap, and gently stroked the animal. She was too smart to deceive herself, and she realized that she was about to lose her friend. Most who knew her thought her stone-hearted. Certainly, that was the image she projected on television. Now she cried openly. Would she have done so if others had been present? Who knows?

Scheherazade died during the night. The next day Rita Kenyon drove to the studio as usual, assuming the persona that was expected of her.

18
 

Noah finally allowed that the CDC labs were fully equipped to isolate RNA from the FHF virus; all he needed to bring to Atlanta were his notes. He meticulously worked out all the procedural details with Gary and arranged for a substitute biochem lecturer. By the time he was ready to depart, his e-tablet was loaded with over a hundred pages of detailed protocols for every step of the work.

Angelo, smiling broadly, was waiting for him and they headed from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport to the CDC campus. Without delay, they proceeded to Bronkowski’s office. Noah beheld a large desk with papers and books scattered in seeming disorder, which reminded him of his own office. Behind the desk sat the director, coatless, with his sleeves neatly rolled up to his elbows.

After Angelo had introduced the two to each other, Bronkowski asked, “Would you like to see the Centers?”

Noah was anxious to get started on the work, but he figured it was better to be diplomatic. “Um, yes, that would be nice,” he replied.

As they walked toward the research buildings, Bronkowski remarked, “You know, we’ve been getting dozens of letters, e-mails, and even phone calls from people all over the country offering theories as to how or why FHF got started. Some of them are bizarre. One lady in Kansas believes the disease is God’s revenge on witches. I guess it’s the association of witches with cats. Several other people proposed religious or mythological origins.”

Noah shook his head. “Maybe you can make them into a book someday.”

Bronkowski nodded. “Not a bad idea.” Though heavyset, he was a fast walker, and Noah, despite the fact that he was several inches taller, had to double-step from time to time to keep up with the man. A moment later, Bronkowski said, “The lab building I want to show you is just ahead. We have seven BSL-4 buildings now,” he noted. “After 9/11 and the anthrax scare, the government spent millions of dollars upgrading our facilities, out of fear that terrorists might resort to biological weapons: anthrax, Ebola—who knows what. As a result, we now have the most hot-lab space of any facility in the world.”

They visited three BSL-3 labs, including one in which several technicians were in the process of sequencing FHF virus proteins. Next, Bronkowski showed Noah the large library and the vivarium. Finally, they arrived at the door to the enormous building that housed the BSL-4 labs. The sign read “ADMITTANCE TO AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” Above it was displayed the single word “BIOHAZARD” with the bright orange-and-black circlet of the universal biohazard symbol.

Bronkowski took a plastic card from his shirt pocket and slipped it into the slot. The sliding door opened with a high-pitched whine, and they went inside to an anteroom, where they encountered another door. Noah heard a hiss of flowing air as negative pressure was re-established. Bronkowski explained that the BSL-4 labs lay deep in the interior of the building, surrounded by a series of thick, concrete walls. To pass through each wall to the next inner level, one had to make one’s way through a double-air-lock chamber, such as the one they were now in.