Dead of Night, page 16
She relaxed slightly when Stokes replied, “Mr. Earl can leave whenever he wants. That sly son of a bitch knows I can put him in prison. All I have to do is pick up the phone.”
Dasha thought, That explains a lot.
She didn’t add that Luther Earl could not leave the island any time he wanted. It wasn’t the way she had the security set up.
Stokes paused, took a moment. Didn’t want to sound eager. “When you say come back with something nice—do you mean Applebee’s computer? I’ll give you a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus if you do. And can prove he hasn’t sent off copies somewhere.”
“You told me Applebee never made copies of anything. You said it was part of his—” She’d forgotten the word.
“His syndrome. Avoidance can be a manifestation of compulsion. Applebee refused to back up his work, as far as I know. But the son of a bitch copied my files, so he might have tricked me about copying his own research data, too.”
Dasha said earnestly, “I’m hoping to come back with the computer. But a bonus isn’t necessary. It’s part of the job, and you already pay me well.”
The rich man liked that. Over the months, he’d gradually come to trust her. Not in the same way he trusted Mr. Earl, but close. But that didn’t mean she was off the hook.
“The whole sad episode should’ve never happened in the first place. You’re head of my security. You’re the one who let that little retard get away. It wasn’t my fault.”
Applebee was dead. That was escaping? Mr. Sweet never accepted blame. A neurotic head case.
“If I’m ruined, you people are ruined! You’re like parasites. That’s why you’ve got to protect me.”
He was ranting. It would go on for a while, the fury, his paranoia peaking.
She’d gotten permission to leave. That’s all she cared about. You couldn’t get off the island without it, not even her—and she’d made the rules.
It was the right procedural decision. A professional decision.
Dasha had tightened the island’s security procedures soon after they’d finished assembling, then testing the first of four RMAX radio-controlled crop duster helicopters.
Restricted ingress and egress. She kept the chopper drones under camouflaged netting unless she, Aleski, Aleski’s cousin, Broz, or one of the other Russian pilots she’d hired had them out practicing. They used laptop computer-sized remotes to make low-level passes over the ocean, spraying a watery fog that did not contain the larvae of South American mosquitoes or guinea worms—but soon would.
Beautiful little choppers, five meters long, weighed only a hundred kilograms. They carried a payload large enough to treat several hundred acres with pesticides—or any other liquid.
Dasha was proud of the choppers. Her idea.
When they’d tasked Jobe Applebee with finding the fastest way to circulate waterbome parasites through the Everglades, he’d spent months building a precise model of the state. Something called a diorama. She should’ve known then that Applebee was different.
Mr. Sweet was still slapping at his desk. A spoiled child throwing a tantrum. “Get out of here! Come back with that computer or don’t come back at all!”
Leaving the room, Dasha gave him a farewell grin. This time it said, Fuck you until it’s my turn....
18
LOG
15 Dec. Wednesday 23:30
Bay calm, western planets bright over mangroves. Lake assisted wlDracunculiasis procedure. Results unexpected. Have I stumbled onto something important ... ?
—MDF
16 Dec. Thursday
Received email from Frieda M. and attachments from brother’s computer ...
—MDF
On Thursday afternoon, I was in the lab, squinting into a microscope and making notes, when Harrington called.
“Why don’t you answer the phone?”
“What? We wouldn’t be talking if I didn’t—”
“The other phone.”
I said, “Oh.”
It’d taken me a moment to recognize his voice.
“I’ll call in five minutes.”
I’d just gotten the sea chest open when the satellite phone began its irritating bong ... bong ... bong. I rushed to hit the answer button.
“I’m in the middle of a lab procedure, Hal. Let’s make this quick.”
“I thought you’d be working on your new assignment. The parasites we were discussing.”
I was holding the phone to my ear, already returning to the lab. I was wearing a white smock, surgical gloves, and a plastic spray shield tilted back on my head.
I said, “I am. And making some progress.”
“Good. This won’t take long.”
He told me that Cuban sources had reported that the small-time reptile smuggler, Bat-tuy Nguyen, had been murdered two or three days ago. Him plus two of his helpers.
“Nguyen,” Harrington said, “was shot in the head, execution style.”
“This was in Cuba?”
“A little village in the western part. He kept a warehouse there.”
“What kind of weapon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Had he been robbed?”
“He was one of those fat guys who loved gold jewelry. He was still wearing his rings and necklaces when they found the body.”
“Then it was probably one of his clients. Or a competitor.”
Harrington said, “That’s what we think.”
“The other two?”
“A couple of local men who worked for Nguyen. This isn’t from a police report, nothing official. Just some feet we have on the ground there. So don’t expect much additional information.”
I listened to him tell me that Nguyen had clients worldwide, but it seemed probable that only a few were ordering virulent stuff that could be used as bioweaponry.
“Maybe just one or two organizations, or people. People who’ve found a way to smuggle the stuff in, then distribute it to other buyers, or give it to groups who are politically like-minded: anarchists, religious militants, the fringe group psychotics.”
He said his staff had e-mailed me information regarding seven additional cases of suspected biosabotage. Piranhas in Houston, cane toads in Louisiana, and locusts in California were among them.
“Yours is on the list now. They’ve found more of your parasites near Disney World, in a couple of small lakes south of Orlando. Maybe others, they’re still testing. Someone’s doing it intentionally. This isn’t biovandalism; it’s terrorism. Killing Nguyen would’ve been a way of covering their tracks.”
He told me the names of the lakes, some of the details, before adding, “Staff’s also sending the transcript of a magazine article that might be related. One of our researchers found it—a very sharp piece of work on her part. She thinks the article may have motivated a few borderline kooks to slip over the edge, and start doing this sort of crap.”
“The Rolling Stone piece?” I said.
I was pleased that he sounded astonished. “That’s right. About drug cult fortune-tellers. They made predictions that seem to be coming true. How’d you know?”
I told him I had a very savvy research assistant of my own who was now at the local library, copying the article.
Harrington said, “Seventeen years ago, they predicted locusts would overrun military bases. That poisonous snakes, spiders—you name it—would all rise up and declare war against humanity. Other bizarre stuff, too: moons in alignment, hidden meanings in the lyrics of a song. Typical bullshit.
“What our researcher thinks is the druggie fortune-tellers planted the locust eggs themselves—this was near some weirdo commune. A setup. Years pass, it’s all forgotten. But then the locusts hatch, and some old rock ’n’ roll reporter remembers the prophecies. He writes an article—”
I finished the sentence for him: “—and inspires copycat sympathizers to get fired up. They’ve gone to work trying to make the rest of the predictions come true.”
Harrington said, “Your researcher came up with that?” Impressed.
“I just hired him. Is that okay?”
“Hell, I’d like to hire him myself if that’s the caliber of product he turns out. Whatever you’re paying him, save copies of the money orders and we’ll reimburse you. Just like in the old days. When you were full-time.”
Without a hint of irony, I said, “Even if he needed the money, we couldn’t afford him. It’s more of a goodwill deal. The man has a lot of expertise when it comes to underground political movements.”
Harrington said, “We can afford him, trust me. This one’s been moved up a couple of notches on the list. It hasn’t broken the top twenty, so I can’t offer much help from staff. But we do have the funding. What else does your guy say?”
“He says we should check out the LSD prophets, find out what they’re doing. He noticed that the Rolling Stone article only used old quotes, nothing current. Sounds to him like the prophets might have dropped out of sight for a reason.”
“Really. Our woman didn’t catch it.” He let that hang for a moment. “Seriously. When you’re finished with this project, have the guy send me his résumé.”
Tempting. How would Harrington react when he found out it was Tomlinson?
A few minutes later, a man who identified himself as a special investigator, Florida Department of Health, Center for Disease Control, telephoned and told me that Dracunculiasis larvae had been found in two Central Florida lakes. He was aware that I’d made the first field identification of the parasite. Would I mind answering a few questions?
The investigator’s name was Dr. Clark. His specialty was epidemiology, the study of the origin and spread of disease.
“Which lakes?” I asked, even though Harrington had already told me.
He said the locations weren’t being released because there were only “trace numbers” of the parasite. However, the CDC was working with the Florida Department of Agriculture on a plan in the event more were found.
“That’s why we’re contacting independent biologists,” he added. “People who think outside the box. I’ve been using a questionnaire for consistency.”
My cynical reaction: Any agency that used the term “outside the box” would be unsettled by an original idea.
His evasiveness told me the situation was more serious than he was authorized to say.
I swung off the lab stool, got my Florida atlas, and began to page through it. Dracunculiasis had been found near Orlando, in Orange County’s Lake Huckleberry and Lake Tibet.
It took me a moment to locate them: little bitty lakes in a region of big lakes. They were only a couple of miles outside the megaregion owned by Disney. Both appeared to be linked via various water passages with other theme parks to the east and south. SeaWorld, Universal Orlando, several smaller tourist attractions, and something called “Gatorland.”
I didn’t fault his department for being cautious. That headline came into my mind once again: TOURISTS INFESTED WITH EXOTIC PARASITES.
News would spread around the world within hours.
I said, “I understand that this is a delicate situation. But let’s drop the shields. How can I give you my opinion if I don’t have all the data?”
His silence told me that he was thinking it over, so I added, “I’m the guy who found Jobe Applebee. The medical examiner’s office took photos. Did you see them?”
Clark replied, “Yes.” After a few beats, he added: “I wish I hadn’t.”
Returning to my stool and microscope, I said, “Okay, then we both know how serious this is. What else aren’t you supposed to tell me?”
The man spoke softly. Maybe he was in an office near a busy hallway. “More than a week before Dr. Applebee’s death, the Centers for Disease Control, Atlanta, was informed of three cases of guinea worm infestation. Unrelated cases. Or so we believed. An adult male who lives in Seattle, a teenage girl from Ashland, Ohio, and a veterinarian from Orlando.
“We now know that the adult male and the teenager were both in the Orlando area last December within a week or so of the other. The man’s a bass fisherman; the girl spent a morning waterskiing.
“In the last few days, we’ve also received reports through the international health services of five more cases. People from Great Britain, western Australia, and Montford, France. We’ve confirmed that three of the five were in the Orlando area in late November, and early December. We’re still awaiting word about the other two.”
I said, “Damn.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“The time frame’s right. There’s a twelve-month gestation period. But only eight cases reported?” I mulled that over before saying, “That’s actually not bad news. How many millions of people hit Disney every holiday season? Statistically, it’s encouraging.”
Clark sighed. He sounded tired. “I hope you’re right. I don’t know what we’re going to do if we find more. Americans aren’t going to react well to the idea of being infected by a parasite like this one. Mosquitoes that carry West Nile virus, that’s tolerable. But flesh-eating worms? Culturally, we can’t handle that. We’ll have to post public warnings. No swimming, no water contact of any kind. We’d have to shut down businesses. Marinas, farms, even tour boats.”
He added, “I can’t think of a faster way to spread a disease vector around the globe. Introduce it at Disney.” I heard papers rattle. He was resuming his role as interviewer. “Now you know the facts, Dr. Ford. Would you mind answering our questionnaire?”
He had a written list. It was bureaucracy-think: Poll the experts, and the consensus provided an effective scapegoat for a department burdened with making a tough decision.
Clark’s questions were linked to a more basic question: What is the most effective way to eradicate a species of waterborne parasite without destroying other plants and animals?
I was sitting at a table, my Leica microscope within easy reach. I told him, “The first thing I’d do is contact South Florida Water Management and tell them not to release water from Lake Okeechobee into the ’Glades. Create an artificial drought. Slow the flow of water. That might buy some time.”
Clark said they’d already done that. His questionnaire was based on a worst-case scenario: What if the parasite was already widely dispersed?
“We’ve been discussing two options,” he said. “Introduce a fish or insect from Africa that preys naturally on guinea worm larvae. Or interrupt the parasite’s life cycle by eliminating its requisite host.”
I’d told him that I had a philosophical problem with importing one exotic to control another. Ecosystems take thousands of years to balance interlinkings between geography and species. The resulting milieu is not a stage for experimentation. Tinkering is a recipe for disaster that’s been demonstrated too many times.
No need to pursue that line of questioning.
“Then help us choose the best way to eliminate the parasite’s carrier host. Copepods, as I suspect you know.”
Yes, I told him, I was familiar with copepods. In fact, on the table in front of me was a thousand-milliliter flask filled with the things.
“That’s quite a coincidence,” Clark said.
Looking at the flask, I replied, “Not really. I’ve been doing a procedure your people might find interesting.”
The flask contained water that appeared murky but was, in fact, alive, animated with the tiny crustaceans. They were silt-sized, grouped as a moving gray cloud in a Pyrex container that was shaped not unlike an alchemist’s lamp.
The flask also contained guinea larvae. Which was why I was wearing surgical gloves and a face shield.
Clark said, “I have a list of pesticides. Can I read it off first?”
I was still looking at the flask. “Sure. I’ll work while we talk.”
I’d used a pipette to fill twin concave chambers in a glass microscope slide. One chamber contained a dozen swimming, darting copepods. The second indentation, only water.
The slide was mounted on the microscope’s illuminated stage. I rotated the trinocular to medium power as Clark began to read from his list of pesticides:
“We’re considering Abate, active ingredient temephos. It’s an organophosphate, the same chemical group as nerve gas. Abate inhibits neural function. Even in small amounts, it’s deadly to mosquito larvae and copepods—only an ounce or so per acre of water. But it also impacts aquatic invertebrates, and fish. It’s currently in use in many regions of the south...”
“Impact.” Add yet another euphemism for “kill.”
As he continued reading, my attention began to blur as the magnified image of a copepod came into focus.
Hello, Macro Cyclops. The copepod is named for its bright and solitary red eye. Cyclops: A micromonster that feeds on other monsters.
Its body was rocket-shaped with an elegant V-tail, and a nose tipped with oversized antenna that drooped like a handlebar mustache. Its shell, or carapace, was segmented like a lobster, but translucent so that it emitted prismatic bands of color when transected by light.
This one was female. Symmetrical egg panels were attached like fins. It added to the illusion that this was a space vehicle, not one of the earth’s most abundant life-forms.
Many people say they perceive the magnitude of the cosmos when they look at the stars. I see the same infinite complexities through a microscope’s tube, and usually in better detail.
The Leica had superb resolution, and a rheostat-controlled halogen illumination system that transformed this tiny organism into a three-dimensional animal that moved ... paused ... shifted directions. It appeared no less complex, nor vital, than the largest animal that has ever walked the planet.
I rotated the trinocular to its highest power, touching the fine-focus coaxial as I listened to Dr. Clark say, “... the third chemical we’re considering is Dylox, active ingredient trichlorfon, which is used to control insect pests on fruit trees and ornamentals ...”
I looked up briefly, adjusting the phone between shoulder and ear. Had I missed the second pesticide on the list? Apparently.
I leaned over the microscope once again.
