Mirrors (2 page)

“We appreciate your time,” Bird said. He opened a folder. “Seen this?”

“Of course, that’s the paper I published on XK59 six months ago.”

“Correct, in the
Journal of Pharmaceutical Metabolism
. Why did you publish it when you were advised not to?”

“Because the findings were significant.”

Shortly before my article went to press, an official from the Department of Homeland Security who learned of the paper from one of the manuscript’s reviewers called me to express concern that the protein might fall into hostile hands. He followed the call by sending me an official letter delivered by courier.

“They were trying to protect the homeland,” Bird said.

“Censorship doesn’t protect,” I replied.

“Say what you will. The fact is XK59 has become a weapon, which makes you an accomplice to ten illnesses involving three deaths.”

I turned to Flagstaff. “You mentioned two deaths.”

“The number’s growing.”

“Who’s behind this?” I asked.

“We hoped
you’d
tell us,” Bird retorted.

“How would I know?”

“You pocketed a quarter million from selling a sample of XK59 to a pharmaceutical firm recently. What did they do with it?”

“They tried to develop it into a clot dissolver before they went bankrupt.”

“They were a sham from the start. Their sole mission was to acquire XK59 to attack the homeland. The question is: Besides selling them XK59, how else did you help them poison the public?”

I turned to Flagstaff. “I don’t have time for this.”

“We need your help,” he replied.

“As a
suspect
?”

“We’d like you to prove us wrong.”

“Flagstaff is being polite,” Bird said. “We were
ordered
to recruit you.”

“By whom?”

“You’ll find out shortly on Capitol Hill.”

The walkway above
the Amygdala was a tube made from see-through plastic and was connected to two spiral staircases on opposite sides of the rotunda.

“The ‘crow’s nest,’ ” Flagstaff explained, looking up. He stood with me now in Bird’s absence.

“What’s it for?”

“I’ll show you.” We climbed one of the spiral stairways and with each revolution a spoke-in-wheel array of aisles came into view below, each chockablock with computers and minions whose heads turned between monitors like metronome blades.

At the top of the stairway, I grasped a handrail and gazed about. Encircling the Amygdala was an enormous screen depicting a world map. Blipping lights flashed across it in menacing style.

“Each blip is an event of interest,” Flagstaff explained. “Blue—cybersecurity; red—hostile incursions; green—bioterrorism.” He swept an arm across the U.S. “Those green lights are XK59 poisonings.”

The lights spanned the nation in what appeared to be random fashion.

“And what about them?” I asked, pointing to the staff below.

“Event monitors. Bird and I oversee them. We supplement them with experts like you as needed for short-term details.”

I lifted my gaze and pointed to blue lights flashing along a border in eastern Europe. “And those?”

“Pro-Russia cyberattacks on the electric grid in Ukraine.”

“And there?” I moved my arm to the southeast.

“The Caucusus, a region between the Caspian and Black Seas where an epidemic of brucellosis is raging—bioterror in nature.”

I dug deep to recall my medical school lectures. “Brucellosis—an infection with the bacterium
Brucella abortus
… mostly afflicts animals but can sicken humans … produces fever, weakness, and fatigue; can be lethal if untreated.”

He nodded. “More than a thousand humans sick in the Caucusus from sabotaged milk. It would have been easy for terrorists to acquire the pathogen because it’s endemic in cows and goats there.” He peered at me. “How long do you think it takes to fly from the Caucasus to the dairy state of Wisconsin where you grew up?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Roughly fifteen hours, which means one could transport a suitcase of
Brucella abortus
from the outbreak zone to a major livestock region of our country in less than a day. If they released it in areas where there were unvaccinated cows, illnesses among the cows could lead to havoc.” He paused. “Worse yet, if they managed to breach a dairy and contaminate pasteurized milk with the pathogen, we’d have an epidemic of the sort happening in the Caucasus. That’s why we track these events: We want to know what could be heading our way before it arrives.”

A narrative scrolled across the screen:

Additional
XK59
illnesses in U.S.…
“Two new lights,” I stammered.

“Yup, the outbreak’s growing.”

Like a weed,
Glenn Bird popped up again, this time on the crow’s nest. He straightened his tie with spindly fingers before pointing to the screen. “Check out Seattle,” he said, tapping a keyboard on a rail.

New text appeared on the screen beside Seattle:

Byron Rudolf

36 years old

Software engineer

Became ill July 1st

Died July 2nd

“Our first fatality,” Bird said. “He succumbed rapidly. Here’s what happened.”

More text:

Sore throat

Spitting up blood

Abrupt onset of fever

“A co-worker found Rudolf puking blood in the bathroom.”

“Did he have a history of stomach ulcers or easy bleeding?” I asked.

“No, he was completely healthy.”

“Was he taking any medications?”

“None.”

Bird tapped the keyboard
…

Rushed to hospital

Multiple blood transfusions

Admitted to intensive care

“They described him as a hole-ridden hose, blood oozing from everywhere—lips, gums, nose, ears, between webs of hands and feet. His skin became mottled before turning purple.”

“Subcutaneous bleeding,” I muttered. “What about his clotting system?”

“Depleted from all the holes XK59 punched into him.”

“Was XK59 recovered from his body?”

“From muscles, skin, liver, kidneys, heart, brain … you name it. He was reduced to a pool of blood 18 hours after reaching the hospital.”

“What led them to look for XK59?”

“We told them to test for it,” Bird replied. “We work with select hospitals around the country to investigate unusual illnesses. It’s a surveillance system designed to detect covert attacks on the homeland. After you published your paper, we added XK59 to the list of agents that cause bleeding.”

“Rudolf became ill three weeks ago. Why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“Five months ago, you pocketed a quarter million from the sale of XK59 and then used the funds to pay off gambling debts. Not the sort of guy we’re inclined to recruit.”

A Chinese proverb
states:
If you must gamble, decide upon three things at the start: the rules of the game, the stakes, and the quitting time
. I wish I had minded the last part before I started gambling; it would have prevented much pain.

I began gambling during the summer before my senior year in high school. My twenty-two-year old brother and I were on a road trip from Wisconsin to the west coast to visit colleges, not because I wanted to, but because my mother insisted I do so. My idea after graduating was to join the merchant marines rather than go to college. A ferry ride I took across Lake Michigan during middle school instilled in me a drive to breathe salty air, hopscotch ports, and ply sea lanes.

My mother was displeased when she learned of the plans. She summoned my brother at the start of summer before my senior year of high school and instructed him to take me cross-country on a college-visiting tour. Midway through the trip, before returning home, I cajoled my brother to add Los Angeles to our itinerary. When we arrived, I went to the port to inquire about seafaring jobs. I was informed that I would have to finish high school and then attend a marine academy before I would qualify to go to sea. Discouraged, I set off for home with my brother but we hit a snag at the Nevada line when we ran short on cash. Without credit cards, we limped into Las Vegas with fifty-five dollars to our name.

After camping in the sweltering heat, I approached my brother. “Let’s gamble,” I told him.

“With
what
?” he asked.

I asked for his wallet and took out a five dollar bill. “This is for calling mom if we need a ride home. The rest is for gambling.”

He swore under his breath.

“Got another plan?” I asked.

He took the money and started off. “If I lose, it’s your fault.”

“Bet on black,” I shouted, pointing to our pickup truck. “Hasn’t missed a beat this trip.”

An hour later, he returned with a hundred dollars.

“Go back and bet on red this time,” I told him.

He disappeared, only to return with a wider grin than before. With two hundred dollars to our name, we checked into a motel, showered, and went to a seedy casino off the strip where a twenty-dollar bribe bought me a seat beside my brother at a blackjack table. By dusk, we quadrupled our bounty. After dinner and a sweet night’s sleep, we departed for Wisconsin without telling my mother what happened. The Las Vegas stay played a large role in my decision to return years later to attend medical school there.

In the meantime, gambling lured me. During my senior year in high school, I formed a poker circle and bet on sports. Every time I rolled the dice or drew a card, I felt a rush of adrenalin. Nothing rivaled it—not music, hobbies, or girls. Winning was synonymous with success. My esteem soared, as did my cash holdings, which brought relief from the austerity my father foisted upon us after leaving the family for a younger woman, one who, as he put it, had a
real
heart. I never knew what he meant by that until my mother told me years later that
her
heart was failing from an auto-immune ailment. That explained the difficulty she had climbing stairs or walking distances.

My mother was aware of the gambling I did. While she disapproved of it, economic necessities in a single-parent household with a balance sheet tilting more toward debt than savings has a way of inducing tolerance. Even with gambling earnings, food ran short at times. At one point before I started gambling—I was fifteen at the time and bowlegged—a rumor spread that I had rickets from vitamin D deficiency. It wasn’t a nutritional deficiency that caused my legs to bow so much as the hours I spent on an ancient John Deere tractor, a vehicle with a metal seat so wide it strained the muscles in my thighs. One day, a social worker appeared at our door to check on me. After eyeing our sparse living quarters and inspecting the barren kitchen cabinets, she announced she was taking me to a foster home. My mother emerged from the shadows with a shotgun aimed at the social worker and warned the lady that if she laid a hand on me she’d pull the trigger. It was the last we heard of foster homes.

With the merchant marines no longer an immediate career option, I entered the University of Wisconsin in Madison where, to my surprise, I enjoyed studying. My years of roadside dissections led me to major in biology, and having learned of my mother’s auto-immune disease, I decided to apply to medical school.