Genesis Plague: An Archaeological Thriller (A Darwin Lacroix Adventure Book 6), page 15
Eyrún weighed in. “We need to take this to authorities who have more knowledge and resources than we do.”
Darwin’s hand moved to the spot on his head that got whacked in Venice. Part of him agreed with Eyrún, but another part remained wary.
“What about a Vatican resource?” asked Maya.
They all looked at Darwin, who considered the question before saying, “I’m sure they do. The Holy See has ambassadors with most countries, and most major global organizations have offices nearby.”
“But the WHO is off the list,” said Eyrún.
“That goes without saying,” said Darwin.
Maya scrolled through her phone. “The ECDC, European Centre for Disease Prevention and Control, has an office three blocks behind Vatican City. But let’s make this more official than the half-assed meeting in Venice.”
“What about asking the head of Vatican security to request a confidential meeting?” asked Eyrún.
“Agreed,” said Zac. “That will add gravity.”
Darwin brought up the security head’s number and stepped outside the room for the call as Eyrún insisted Maya stay with them at the Mountain House.
Rome
Eyrún piloted Maya, Darwin, and Zac to Rome the next morning for a meeting at the European Centre for Disease Control. An employee led them to a glass-walled room that appeared like any modern corporate office where they were greeted by a sandy-haired man of medium height who wore a well-tailored navy-blue suit, white shirt, and tie.
“Good day, I’m Nigel Thatcher, no relation to the former PM,” he said, laughing at his joke. “I didn’t expect a crowd when I got the call from Vatican security. I hope we don’t have a pandemic in the Holy See; bad for business.” Nigel chuckled again, and he shook hands around the room.
Darwin’s bullshit detector lit up immediately. He’d worked with this Teflon type before. The others must have caught similar feelings as he watched them frown as Nigel moved past. “Did my EA offer you an espresso?” he asked as they took seats.
“Yes. Thank you,” said Eyrún.
They made introductions, and after Maya finished, Nigel commented. “Investigative journalism? I hope you’re not here to flog our reputation,” he said, followed by a cocktail party laugh.
Darwin’s watch buzzed.
Eyrún: don’t like him. Keep it high level
He nodded her way as Nigel folded his hands on the table and asked,“How can I help you today?”
Eyrún jumped in. “Our organization, the Agrippa Centre for Archaeology, operates in several global locations. One group working with indigenous people in Siberia encountered two villages with significant plague outbreaks. Then we heard of a plague outbreak on a remote Japanese island. We need to be cautious about where we send our people and wonder if the ECDC knows what might be happening.”
“I read about both in the weekly morbidity and mortality report circulated by the World Health Organization. I should think you would want to speak with them,” said Nigel.
“We have Mr. Thatcher, but as you know, it’s an enormous organization, quite political, and the official we spoke with clammed up. I’ve since learned he is Russian,” said Eyrún.
“I see, and you thought that we could help?”
Darwin sensed the curtain that Nigel had drawn across himself. He’d seen the behavior during his schooling in London from students in upper-class families. Issues thought beneath them were politely avoided.
Zac leaned his muscular frame on the table. “You’ll have to excuse me, Nigel, but I haven’t been forthright.”
The perfectly coiffed man raised an eyebrow.
“I’m with US Army intelligence working with the CDC. We’ve been helping the Ukrainians under the table, mainly to monitor the Russians. While we feed the press whispers about the potential nuclear weapons use, we consider bioweapons more plausible.”
“Do you have any evidence for this?” asked Nigel.
“Yes.” Zac sat patiently as a stone.
Finally, Nigel said, “If you share it, perhaps my organization might help.”
“I’m not at liberty to do so, but we know someone has used gene editing to produce a gain of function in a pathogen. And we think that someone is Russian.”
“We’re not on good terms with the Russians,” said Nigel.
“The wolf is at your door, Mr. Thatcher. You’ve opened your arms to refugees, which is the humanist thing to do, but tell me, Nigel, how do you tell them apart from Russian agents?”
“I … well, you can’t,” said Nigel, sitting back in his chair.
“That is a problem.” Zac grinned.
Nigel rallied at the threat. “What do you want, Mr. Johnson?”
“I think the ECDC knows more than you can say. I would share in kind, but you know how it is, Mr. Thatcher. We all have bosses,” said Zac, turning up his palms.
“I have an idea,” said Eyrún, leaning forward. All heads turned in her direction as she poured on the charm. “We know you can’t tell us classified details, Nigel.” She removed a sheet of paper from her folio and slid it toward him. “But we compiled this list of biosafety labs and scientists. Could you let us know if any have worried the ECDC?”
Nigel pulled the page closer, ran a finger down it, then looked up. “It’s not my area of expertise, but we have an analyst in the office who could help. I have to ask, what will your organization, the ACA, do with this information?” His tone had shifted to one of genuine curiosity.
Zac answered, “Let’s just say the ACA and journalists provide wonderful cover when probing for answers.”
“I see,” said Nigel.
“Any chance you could call your analyst to the conference room?” asked Eyrún.
Minutes later, a trim woman dressed in all black joined them in the conference room. She studied the list through black-rimmed glasses and paused. “I’m not familiar with these two,” she’d said, fingering the list.
“They’re long shots, but a source mentioned them, so we’re keeping an open mind,” said Eyrún. The source was Zac and Maya, who had added two random Russian cities as red herrings to draw a reaction.
“Interesting,” said the analyst. “I’ll have to dig into these cities. One area you might also consider is manufacturing plants. We think the Russians may use non-traditional facilities to conceal biosafety labs.”
“Thanks. This is very helpful,” said Eyrún, agreeing to share what they discovered.
In exchange, the analyst promised to compile a list of Ukrainian scientists who had taken jobs at any research institutions in Europe.
Darwin took Eyrún, Zac, and Maya to one of his favorite coffee bars after the ECDC meeting to debrief. As they sat at a corner table, Eyrún asked, “How would we probe Russian plants to find hidden labs?”
“I doubt we could,” said Zac. “The US has satellite photos, but a steel plant will look like a steel plant, and there are thousands of manufacturing facilities in Russia.”
“What about scientific centers? Universities?” asked Eyrún.
“Maybe,” said Maya. “As of last year, there are forty-two known BSL-4s in the world, and publicly announced plans for seventeen more.” She read from her phone. “Russia has two: Sergiyev Posad, and Koltsovo. Belarus and Hungary each have one. Italy has two, France three, Germany four, and the UK has seven. You Americans have ten,” she said, looking at Zac. “And that’s just the fours. The BSL-3s number in the hundreds.”
“Why are there so many of these things?” asked Eyrún.
“Good question,” said Maya. “Most are for legitimate medical research to understand diseases and develop cures. The BSL-4s are for research on the killers like Ebola, the most dangerous flu viruses, and smallpox.”
“But we eliminated smallpox,” said Darwin.
“Yes. And for unknown reasons, some labs still keep the virus in deep freeze.”
Merde. Darwin shuddered, wishing he could return to ignorant bliss. He knew people plotted harm and militaries sought to gain advantages, but knowing about it and hearing specific examples felt like the barbarians had already broken down the gate.
Eyrún asked, “I’m looking at the link you sent, and Yersinia pestis is listed as only requiring a BSL-3. What’s the difference between three and four?”
“The biosafety threes deal with pathogens that can be isolated and contained within a restricted space. Personnel must be highly trained technicians and wear complete face protection. The labs are behind double doors, an environment that protects any pathogen from circulating beyond the lab.
“The pathogens manipulated in BSL-3s, like West Nile Virus, MERS, SARS, and Yersina Pestis, cause severe disease, but they exist in the wild,” said Maya.
“Then and why would the people who released this plague variant need a BSL-4?” asked Eyrún.
“Because they’re working on an extreme gain in virulence,” said Zac. “And they don’t want the genie out of the bottle until they are ready.”
“Ready for what?” asked Eyrún.
“Armageddon,” said Maya.
38
Almaty, Kazakhstan
Tatiana returned to their Airbnb at the end of her first week working in the Kazakh central biological sciences facility. She been given a job by her former mentor, Olga Tolzhanova, who ran the BSL-4 in the Almaty lab. She placed her purse on the kitchen table, her employee badge clipped to its strap.
“How’d it go?” asked Gaetan.
“Good. We’re ready. She’s working late tonight.”
Adele looked up from a couch where she’d been studying a map of Kazakhstan spread across a coffee table. “Thank God. I’m tired of sitting around on my ass.” She stood and joined them at the kitchen table.
Gaetan checked the time. “We’ll go in two hours. Let’s review the plan once more.” He slid a paper between them, showing the top-down view of the facility’s neighborhood.
The six-story monolith of the Kazakh central biological sciences facility sat back from the main boulevard, surrounded by a twenty-meter-wide paved yard. Guards monitored the delivery entrance on the building’s south-facing long side. The employee entrance faced the east side and was accessed by badge scanners. Their plan called for Tatiana to badge in and, if anyone asked, she would say she had an experiment to monitor in the BSL-3.
“You’re sure you can get inside the BSL-4?” asked Adele.
“Yes. When I left, the electronic lock was still broken. Its repair is stuck in some bureaucratic loop. People are badging in to keep up the allusion the lock is working. I verified it before I Ieft.”
“I love it when problems solve themselves,” said Gaetan.
Entry to the tightly restricted BSL-4 was their most challenging obstacle. Tatiana was relieved, as her other option was stealing her colleague’s badge, which she figured might not be complicated. But the door lock to the freezers containing the pathogens inside the BSL-4 required a retina scan. Tatiana’s stomach had turned at the gruesome prospect of killing Olga and cutting her eye out. Fortunately, Gaetan had thought of another option.
“And if we have to go in, what about security?” asked Adele, nervously clicking a retractable pen. Gaetan put a hand on it to stop the distraction.
“The ground floor security reduces to two guards after the workday. They’re supposed to make rounds, but I didn’t see them during the nights I worked late,” said Tatiana.
Gaetan handed Tatiana a syringe. “Be very careful with this.”
She nodded and gingerly placed it in her jacket pocket. “I’m ready,” she said.
Adele gave a thumbs up, and Gaetan nodded.
They packed their bags, cleaned up anything in the flat that could identify them, and ate dinner. After getting the pathogen samples, they would take an overnight flight from Almaty Airport through Istanbul to Paris.
The streets surrounding the biological sciences facility were quiet as they walked from the car park to the building. Gaetan and Adele waited in an adjacent picnic space in case Tatiana needed help.
After badging in the main entrance, Tatiana glanced down the side hall at the security office; its window was lit, but she could not see if anyone occupied it. Then she rode the lift to the third floor and traversed the empty hall to the BSL-4 entrance.
Aware of the security camera monitoring the door, she placed her badge over the broken lock mechanism, like any other scientist entering the high-security lab, and pulled the handle. She stepped into the empty locker room as the door closed with a soft whoosh behind her. A quick survey showed a scientist in the decontamination showers had about two minutes to go in their wash cycle and another three in the rinse cycle, then they’d be gone for the day.
Good. One less complication. She’d enter the BSL-4 as the person came out of the shower and, hopefully, they wouldn’t see her. Her heart rate settled as she hurriedly but methodically dressed in scrubs and bagged her street clothes, then stepped into the protective rubber suit and zipped it up. Normally, she’d pressure test it, but there was no time. She attached an air hose, inflating the suit with breathable air and ballooning it around her. Except for the clear part of the face shield, she looked like any other scientist in the ultra-secure bio lab.
She opened the lever to the submarine-like airlock and entered the chamber between the locker room and the BSL-4. Seconds later, the room pressurized, and she looked back when a beep sounded. No one had entered the locker room, meaning no one would see the airlock lights. Breathing a sigh of relief, she opened the opposite airlock door and entered the hyper-controlled universe where every five meters, coiled hoses hung from the ceiling.
Tatiana clipped an air hose to her suit, immediately feeling its pressure, and focused on the lab’s layout, recalling that three separate labs entered from a single hallway. Olga would be in one of these. A fourth contained the freezers with the pathogen stocks. She moved through the hall and, seeing the first lab empty, unplugged the air hose and plugged it into the next outlet.
She’d had an anxiety attack the first time she’d entered a BSL-4 and hyperventilated at the thought of deadly pathogens floating in the air around her suit. Tatiana had felt like drowning even though plenty of breathable air surrounded her. She’d rushed through decontamination back to the locker room, where she’d hit the floor on her hands and knees, gasping for air. But she’d worked diligently with a counselor and a scuba instructor to overcome her fear, and now the outer-space-like environment was second nature.
There! Olga sat in the second lab. Tatiana steeled herself and grasped the syringe she’d taped onto the outside arm of her suit. Removing it, she visualized the steps she and Gaetan had worked out. When she was sure she could do it, she waited for her mentor to fill the pipettes again, ensuring she wouldn’t spin around to see who it was until the reagents were safely dispersed in the tray of mini tubes.
Tatiana drew three deep breaths and unplugged the hallway air hose. She opened the door, knowing she had seconds for the next part. The noise of the closing door wouldn’t matter if the syringe did its job. She briefly glanced at the air hose she would need for her suit, then took two long strides and unfastened her mentor’s air hose. Olga turned her head to see what was happening.
Tatiana dropped the hose, grabbed the suit’s airport in one hand, shoved in the syringe with the other, and pushed its plunger. Powder shot inside the suit as she dropped the syringe and reattached the hanging air hose. A white fog clouded her mentor’s suit as the scopolamine powder dispersed. Olga flailed, tossing the multi-pipette, and standing up. She yelled something inside the suit, but Tatiana had disabled the wireless radio controller in the locker room.
Tatiana backed away, registering the sour air from her carbon dioxide, and plugged in the nearest air hose. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” she said as the drug she’d injected took effect.
Olga advanced, but Tatiana held a scalpel she had untaped from her thick rubber boot. Tatiana waved it, threatening to slice her friend’s suit, until Olga backed off, eyes wide and yelling, “What are you doing?”
Her muffled voice could be heard inside the lab but nowhere else. Within two minutes, the panic in Olga’s eyes dulled, and she sat down. The scopolamine rendered her a zombie who would follow nearly any command.
“Olga,” said Tatiana. The woman looked up at her. “I need you to open the pathogen storage,” said Tatiana.
Olga rose from her chair, unplugged the air hose, and entered the hall. Tatiana followed, and steps later, Olga clipped onto the hose by the last door. Then she leaned into the retinal scanner, and the lock released. Tatiana followed Olga inside and sat her on the floor while she determined which freezer had the samples.
She located the Yersinia pestis label on the left of two freezers and levered up the massive round lid, spilling a frozen fog into the room. White waves streamed down the sides of the stainless-steel tank as Tatiana put on specially insulated gloves to handle the samples stored far below freezing. Touching the tank or samples, even through her double synthetic gloves, would burn her fingers like red hot iron. She removed a unique thermos from a rack and used tongs to remove a sample labeled 0.ANT 1993. She slid the tube into the thermos and screwed its lid tightly.
A Klaxon blasted.
She jumped, nearly throwing the container. Olga had regained enough awareness to hit the alarm that sealed the lab and sounded throughout the building. “Traitor. You fucking traitor,” Olga screamed.
Tatiana shoved her aside, unplugged the air hose, and ran for the decontamination shower. She had less than two minutes before peroxide gas flooded the lab. She slammed the shower door behind her and smashed the button, but the countdown took too long. I’ll never make it. She looked at the vents that would spew lethal gas in ninety seconds.
