“Have you had sexual relations recently? Last week or so,” MacGregor clarified. It seemed so cruel a question. One could theoretically get such diseases through sexual contact–maybe a local prostitute? Perhaps there was another case of this at another local hospital and it was being hushed up . . . ?
It took a moment for the man to realize what the man was asking, then another shake. “No, no women in long time.” MacGregor could see it on his face: Never again, not for me . . .
593
“Have you had any blood lately, been given blood, I mean?”
“No.”
“Have you been in contact with anyone who had traveled anywhere?”
“No, only Baghdad, only Baghdad, I am security guard for my general, with him all time, nothing else.”
“Thank you. We’re going to give you something for the pain. We’re going to give you some blood, too, and try to cool you down with ice. I’ll be back in a little while.” The patient nodded, and the doctor left the room, carrying the blood-filled tubes in his gloved hands. “Bloody hell,” MacGregor breathed.
While the nurses and orderlies did their job, MacGregor had his to do. One of the blood samples he split into two, packing both with the greatest care, one for Paris and the Pasteur Institute, and the other for the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention in Atlanta. They’d go out via air express. The rest went to his lead technician, a competent Sudanese, while the doctor drafted a fax. Possible hemorrhagic fever case, it would read, giving country, city, and hospital–but first … he lifted his phone and called his contact in the government health department.
“Here?” the government doctor asked. “In Khartoum? Are you sure? Where is the patient from?”
“That is correct,” MacGregor replied. “The patient says that he came here from Iraq.”
“Iraq? Why would this disease come from there? Have you tested for the proper antibodies?” the official demanded.
“The test is being set up right now,” the Scot told the African.
“How long?”
“An hour.”
“Before you make any notifications, let me come over to see,” the official directed.
To supervise, the man meant. MacGregor closed his eyes and tightened his grip on the phone. This putative physician was a government appointee, the son of a longtime minister, and the best that could be said for this
594
professional colleague was that while seated in his plush office he didn’t endanger any living patients. MacGregor had to struggle to keep his temper in check. It was the same all over Africa. It was as though the local government were desirous to protect their tourist industry–something Sudan singularly lacked, except for some anthropologists doing digs for primitive man down south, near the Ethiopian border. But it was the same everywhere on this lush continent. The government health departments denied everything, one reason why AIDS was so out of control in central Africa. They’d all denied and denied, and they would keep denying until what percentage of their populations were dead? Ten? Thirty? Fifty? But everyone was afraid to criticize African governments and their bureaucrats. It was so easy to be called a racist–and so, better to keep quiet. . . and let people die.
“Doctor,” MacGregor persisted, “I am confident in my diagnosis, and I have a professional duty to–”
“It can wait until I come over,” was the casual reply. It was just the African way, MacGregor knew, and there was no sense in fighting it. This battle he could not win. The Sudanese health department could have his visa lifted in minutes, and then who would treat his patients?
“Very well, Doctor. Please come over directly,” he urged.
“I have a few things I must do, and then I will come over.” That could mean all day, or even longer, and both men knew it. “The patient is isolated?”
“Full precautions are in place,” MacGregor assured him.
“You are a fine physician, lan, and I know I can trust you to see to it that nothing serious will happen.” The line clicked off. He’d scarcely replaced the phone receiver when the instrument rang again.
“Yes?”
“Doctor, please come to Twenty-four,” a nurse’s voice told him.
He was there in three minutes. It was Sohaila. An orderly was carrying out the emesis tray. There was blood in it. She also had come here from Iraq, MacGregor knew. Oh, my God.
595
“NONE OF YOU have anything to fear.”
The words were somewhat reassuring, though not as much as the members of the Revolutionary Council would have liked. The Iranian mullahs were probably telling the truth, but the colonels and generals around the table had fought against Iran as captains and majors, and one never forgets battlefield enemies.
“We need you to take control of your country’s military,” the senior one went on. “As a result of your cooperation, you will retain your positions. We require only that you swear your loyalty to your new government in God’s name.” There would be more to it than that. They’d be watched closely. The officers all knew that. If they put a single foot wrong, they’d be shot for it. But they had nothing in the way of options, except perhaps to be taken out and shot this afternoon. Summary execution was not exactly unknown in either Iran or Iraq, an efficient way of dealing with dissidents, real or imagined, in both countries.
Facing such a thing was so different from one side to the other. On the side of the guns, one saw it as a quick, efficient, and final way of settling things in one’s favor. From the other side, it had the abrupt injustice of a helicopter crash–just enough time for your spirit to scream No! before the racing earth blotted everything out, the disbelief and outrage of it. Except that in this case, they actually had a choice of sorts. Certain death now, or the chance of death later. The senior surviving officers of the Iraqi military shared furtive looks. They were not in control of their country’s military. The military, the soldiers, were with the people, or with their company officers. The former was pleased to have a surplus of food to eat for the first time in almost a full decade. The latter was pleased as well to see a new day for their country. The break from the old regime was complete. It was just a bad memory now, and there was no return to it. The men in this room could reestablish control only through the good offices of the former enemies who stood at the end of the table with the serene smiles that went along with winning, that went along with holding the gift of life in their hands like pocket
596-
change, easily given and just as easily put away. They offered no choice, really.
The titular leader of the council nodded his submission, followed in seconds by all the others, and with the gesture, the identity of their country faded into history.
From that point on, it was just a matter of making some telephone calls.
THE ONLY SURPRISE was that it didn’t happen on television. For once, the listening posts at STORM TRACK and PALM BOWL were beaten by analysts elsewhere. The TV cameras were in place, as would later be seen, but first there was business to be done, and that was recorded on satellite.
The first Iranians across the border were in motorized units which speeded down the highways under radio silence, but it was daylight, and overhead came two KH-11 satellites which cross-linked their signals to communications birds, and from there down to the reception points. The nearest to Washington were at Fort Belvoir.
“Yes,” Ryan said, lifting the phone to his ear.
“It’s Ben Goodley, Mr. President. It’s happening now. Iranian troops are crossing the border without any opposition we can see.”
“Announcement?”
“Nothing as yet. It looks like they want to be in control first.”
Jack checked the clock on the night table. “Okay, we’ll handle it at the morning brief.” There was no sense in ruining his sleep. He had people who would work through the night for him, Ryan told himself. He’d done it often enough himself.
“Yes, sir.”
Ryan replaced the phone, and was able to go back to sleep. It was one presidential skill he was learning to master. Maybe, he thought, as he faded out again, maybe he’d learn to play golf during a crisis . . . wouldn’t that be…
597
FITTINGLY, IT WAS one of the pederasts. He’d been looking after a fellow criminal–this one was a murderer–and doing a proper job of it, judging by the videotapes, which had accelerated the process.
Moudi had been careful to tell the medical orderlies to supervise the new caregivers closely. The latter had taken the ordinary precautions, wearing their gloves, washing up carefully, keeping the room clean, mopping up all the fluids. This last task had become increasingly difficult with the advancing disease process in the first group of exposed subjects. Their collective moans came through the sound pickup with enough clarity for him to know what they were going through, especially with the absence of pain medications–a violation of the Muslim rules of mercy, which Moudi set aside. The second group of subjects were doing what they’d been told, but they’d not been issued masks, and that was for a reason.