Jean Baptiste did as she was told. Dr. Moudi first donned a fresh pair of latex gloves. Then he checked her
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pulse, 88, her blood pressure, 138/90, and took her temperature, 39–all the numbers were high, the first two because of the third, and because of what she thought it was. It could have been any of a number of ailments, from trivial to fatal, but she’d treated the Mkusa boy, and that luckless child was dying. He left her there, carefully picking up the test tubes and moving them to his laboratory bench.
Moudi had wanted to become a surgeon. The youngest of four sons, all nephews of his country’s leader, he’d waited impatiently to grow up, watching his elder brothers march off to war against Iraq. Two of them had died, and the other had come back maimed, later to die by his own despairing hand, and he’d thought to be a surgeon, the better to save the lives of Allah’s warriors, so that they could fight another day in His Holy Cause. That desire had changed, and instead he’d learned about infectious diseases, because there was more than one way to fight for the Cause, and after years of patience, his way was finally appearing.
Minutes later, he walked to the isolation ward. There is an aura to death, Moudi knew. Perhaps the image before him was something of the imagination, but the fact of it was not. As soon as the sister had brought the blood sample, he’d divided it in two, sending one carefully packed test tube by air express to the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta, Georgia, U.S.A., the global center for the analysis of exotic and dangerous agents. The other he’d kept in cold storage to await developments. CDC was as efficient as ever. The telex had arrived hours earlier: Ebola Zaire was the identification, followed by a lengthy set of warnings and instructions which were entirely unnecessary. As was the diagnosis, really. Few things killed like this, and none of them so fast.
It was as if Benedict Mkusa had been cursed by Allah Himself, something Moudi knew not to be true, for Allah was a God of Mercy, who did not deliberately afflict the young and innocent. To say “it was written” was more accurate, but hardly more merciful for the patient or his parents. They sat by the bedside, dressed in protective
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garb, watching their world die before their eyes. The boy was in pain–horrid agony, really. Parts of his body were already dead and rotting while his heart still tried to pump and his brain to reason. The only other thing that could do this to a human body was a massive exposure to ionizing radiation. The effects were grossly similar. One by one at first, then in pairs, then in groups, then all at once, the internal organs became necrotic. The boy was too weak to vomit now, but blood issued from the other end of his GI tract. Only the eyes were something close to normal, though blood was there as well. Dark, young eyes, sad and not understanding, not comprehending that a life so recently begun was surely ending now, looking to his parents to make things right, as they always had during his eight years. The room stank of blood and sweat and other bodily fluids, and the look on the boy’s face became more distant. Even as he lay still he seemed to draw away, and truly Dr. Moudi closed his eyes and whispered a prayer for the boy, who was just a boy, after all, and though not a Muslim, still a religious lad, and a person of the Book unfairly denied access to the words of the Prophet. Allah was merciful above all things, and surely He would show mercy to this boy, taking him safely into Paradise. And better it were done quickly.
If an aura could be black, then this one was. Death enveloped the young patient one centimeter at a time. The painful breaths grew more shallow, the eyes, turned to his parents, stopped moving, and the agonized twitches of the limbs traveled down the extremities until just the fingers moved, ever so slightly, and presently that stopped.
Sister Maria Magdalena, standing behind and between mother and father, placed a hand on the shoulder of each, and Dr. Moudi moved in closer, setting his stethoscope on the patient’s chest. There was some noise, gurgles and faint tears as the necrosis destroyed tissue–a dreadful yet dynamic process, but of the heart there was nothing. He moved the ancient instrument about to be sure, then he looked up.
“He is gone. I am very sorry.” He might have added that for Ebola this death had been merciful, or so the
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books and articles said. This was his first direct experience with the virus, and it had been quite dreadful enough.
The parents took it well. They’d known for more than a day, long enough to accept, short enough that the shock hadn’t worn off. They would go and pray, which was entirely proper.
The body of Benedict Mkusa would be burned, and the virus with it. The telex from Atlanta had been very clear on that. Too bad.
RYAN FLEXED HIS hand when the line finally ended. He turned to see his wife massaging hers and taking a deep breath. “Get you something?” Jack asked.
“Something soft. Two procedures tomorrow morning.” And they still hadn’t come up with a convenient way of getting Cathy to work. “How many of these things will we have to do?” his wife asked.
“I don’t know,” the President admitted, though he knew that the schedule was set months in advance, and that most of the program would have to be adhered to regardless of his wishes. As each day passed, it amazed him more and more that people sought .after this job–the job had so many extraneous duties that it could scarcely be done. But the extraneous duties in a real sense were the job. It just went round and round. Then a staffer appeared with soft drinks for the President and First Lady, summoned by another who’d heard what Cathy had said. The paper napkins were monogrammed–stamped, whatever the process was called–with the image of the White House, and under it the words, THE PRESIDENT’S HOUSE. Husband and wife both noticed that at the same moment, then allowed their eyes to meet.
“Remember the first time we took Sally to Disney World?” Cathy asked.
Jack knew what his wife meant. Just after their daughter’s third birthday, not long before their trip to England … and the beginning of a journey which, it seemed, would never end. Sally had fixed on the castle in the center of the Magic Kingdom, always looking to see it no matter where
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they were at the time. She’d called it Mickey’s House. Well, they had their own castle now. For a while, anyway. But the rent was pretty high. Cathy wandered over to where Robby and Sissy Jackson were speaking with the Prince of Wales. Jack found his chief of staff.
“How’s the hand?” Arnie asked.
“No complaints.”
“You’re lucky you’re not campaigning. Lots of people think a friendly handshake is a knuckle-buster–man-toman and all that. At least these people know better.” Van Damm sipped at his Perrier and surveyed the room. The reception was going well. Various chiefs of state and ambassadors and others were engaged in friendly conversation. There were a few discreet laughs at the exchange of jokes and pleasantries. The mood of the day had changed.
“So, how many exams did I pass and fail?” Ryan asked quietly.
“Honest answer? No telling. They all looked for something different. Remember that.” And some of them really didn’t give a damn, having come for their own domestic political reasons, but even under these circumstances it was impolitic to say so.
“Kinda figured that out on my own, Arnie. Now I circulate, right?”
“Hit India,” van Damm advised. “Adler thinks it’s important.”
“Roger.” At least he remembered what she looked like. So many of the faces in the line had turned immediately into blurs, just as happened at an over-large party of any sort. It made Ryan feel like a fraud. Politicians were supposed to have a photographic memory for names and faces. He did not, and wondered if there were some sort of training method to acquire one. Jack handed his glass off to an attendant, wiped his hands with one of the special napkins, and headed off to see India. Russia stopped him first.
“Mr. Ambassador,” Jack said. Valeriy Bogdanovich Lermonsov had been through the receiving line, but there hadn’t been time then for whatever he wanted to say. They shook hands again anyway. Lermonsov was a career
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diplomat, popular in the local community of his peers. There was talk that he’d been KGB for years, but that was hardly something Ryan could hold against him.