The Visitor (19 page)

Baron was shown to the front seat of one of the cars, Tak and Dr. Volkova to the rear, and with Dr. Dorogomilov, driving without a chauffeur so as not to be overheard, they headed for the hotel.

En route Baron said, “Doctor, I was very sorry to learn of the passing of your lovely wife, Karina. I offer my most sincere condolences.”

“Thank you,” Dorogomilov said with a note of sadness. “I miss her greatly. But I see you are well informed and have the advantage of me. I know nothing of you, Baron, only that you must be a very important and powerful person.”

“You flatter me,” Baron said. He continued to show his knowledge by saying, “I hope that I’ve not come at an inopportune time as Nauryz starts tomorrow.”

“How informed you are, Baron. I hope you and madam will be able to stay to enjoy the festival.

“We’ll see,” Baron said. “We may stay for a part of it.”

To entice them to stay on, the doctor said, “Following the outdoor national games at the festival tomorrow, my deceased wife’s family is having a special dinner. Would you be able to attend?”

“A Dastarkhan?” Baron asked.

“You know of Dastarkhan?” Dr. Dorogomilov was even more impressed. “You know this country as though you were local.”

“It’s my business to know of the people and places that I do business with.”

“You will be the most honored guest at the dinner.”

“But you pay me much too much tribute by making me the ‘most honored guest.’ I’m certainly not worthy of such honor.” That was one thing Baron said that he certainly did not mean.

After he and Tak were settled in their rooms, Baron opened a bottle of red wine from his case--as the local wine was the equivalent of camel piss--and poured two glasses.

***

Come morning, while sitting in the lobby, waiting for Dr. Dorogomilov, Tak said to Baron, “‘Dorogomilov’ is an interesting name. Does it have some particular background or significance?”

Baron chuckled. “Yes. It’s Russian and means ‘the cute one.’ Russian names often have meanings like that.”

Tak looked perplexed. “He does not seem to be cute.”

Dr. Dorogomilov approached at that time. They both rose to greet him.

“Good morning, doctor,” Baron said in Russian.

“Did you both sleep well?” the doctor asked.

“I did, but let me ask Madam Baroness.” He switched to English, “Tak, the doctor is asking if you slept well.”

Having practiced in her room, she said, “Da, spacibo.”

Both the doctor and Baron laughed at her speaking Russian unexpectedly, and Tak joined in.

“Baron and Baroness,” the doctor said, in English. “I’ll now take you to my lab.”

***

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The climate in eerie Building 221 was always gloomy, and the interior was musty and dank. The beauty of spring always found sites other than P.O. Box 2079, the only address the former anthrax mass production facility ever had.

Following a tour of 221, requested by Baron, Drs. Dorogomilov and Volkova, Baron, and Tak sat at a laboratory table as they sipped tea served in small glasses with silver base holders, Russian style.

Baron looked at Dr. Volkova and then at Dr. Dorogomilov, his signal that he was about to conduct business and a query as to whether Dr. Volkova should remain or leave.

Dr. Dorogomilov understood the silent inquiry. “Anastasiya has my complete confidence and will be working with me on every aspect.”

“Madam Baroness is also my assistant in this project, and we can rely on her confidence,” Baron said, regarding Tak.

Baron then announced why he was there. “Doctor, I’m aware of your achievements with Ebola of which you never told the Kremlin.”

Dr. Dorogomilov arched an eyebrow as he waited to hear just how much Baron knew of his super-secret work.

“Doctor, I can put your ability to make race-specific Ebola to use.”

Dr. Dorogomilov felt he had to probe the security leak of his secrets. “How do you know of this?”

“Please forgive me, Doctor, but it’s best to keep such matters undisclosed. I make my living by being able to acquire such information. But rest assured that just because I’m aware of what you can do, it does not mean that it is known by many.”

Dr. Dorogomilov certainly could keep secrets. He had worked for the Soviets on their most super-secret projects in bio-warfare. He wondered if perhaps the leak was from a former colleague he had worked with, which could only be one of about three, now off doing research elsewhere in Russia. Trying to guess as to which one of them might have sold such a tip made his mind very active. Baron dealt in arms and related high technology and ran in such circles. He might have learned of Dr. Dorogomilov years earlier, before the collapse of the Soviet Union, from his formidable resources and contacts. No doubt it had to be one of his
 
ex-colleagues, and then only fragmented information that he could do it, that could not have been confirmed--perhaps only strongly suspected. But yet, here was Baron, presumably with money, claiming to know--and he did know. How?

“Am I correct?” Baron asked. “Do you have Ebola that can be made race specific?”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes with your answer.” The doctor got up and went to a different room, returning after ten minutes with a sealed glass jar a foot high. Inside was a second jar, isolated from the side by pieces of foam, as an additional safety measure against breaking, in case the jar was dropped. Inside was a black mass of several pounds.

“Baron, what you see here is the most deadly virus ever. It’s stronger than the famous Ebola Zaire.” He set it down carefully on the table and guarded it with his hands rather than passing it to Baron, to avoid it being dropped. “I’m the only source of this in the world. This is my own variant of Ebola Zaire, and not only much more virulent, but I, and only I, can make this race specific. And the RNA has been altered so that it will remain race specific after it finds its target race and replicates.”

Tak and Baron moved in to have a closer look, but Dr. Dorogomilov stopped their progress. “Forgive me for not letting you handle it, but you will appreciate that if you were to drop it, we would all die.”

“So my information is correct,” Baron said. “Doctor, would you be interested in applying your skills?”

Dr. Dorogomilov sat, trying his best to hide his enthusiasm at finally being presented with the accolade that he was so clearly entitled to. “What do you have in mind?”

“I present you with an opportunity to realize your genius. I need a race-specific Ebola. If you do this, you can retire and live the rest of your life in luxury.”

Dr. Dorogomilov, his respiratory system on medical alert, but well hidden, asked, “What do you consider luxury?”

“Five million United States Dollars.”

Still trying to act cool, as though he was disinterested, he said, matter-of-factly, “You have my attention. What race?”

“Chinese. I want you to create a race-specific Ebola that will infect only the Han Chinese race. I need enough of it to spread about Tibet in a short time so that it kills a significant number of the seven and a half million Chinese living in Tibet, placed there by the Communist Chinese Government, enough to create an epidemic and a scare. The Chinese that do not contract it will flee the country back to China in fear. This has nothing to do with any hatred for Chinese, but only to pave the way for the return of the Dalai Llama.”

Dr. Dorogomilov’s unusual eyes opened wide. When working for the Soviets, all he’d gotten was his modest pay but he had many privileges, and he had become very bitter since that was all gone, as was his car and income. This would be the retirement to which he was entitled. His mind began to drift to far away islands he had only seen in pictures.

Baron suspected that the doctor might be puzzled as to how to handle so much money and not be suspected of something, such as drug involvement, should he begin to spread such wealth around. “Doctor, I’m also aware that you would be suspected and caught if you were to receive such a sum here in Kazakhstan. I’m aware that the tax collectors here in Kazakhstan collaborate illegally with banks on how much money companies have, sharing arrangements between the two, based on corruption. The money will be put in an account for you elsewhere. I can also assist with travel visas for you, if necessary, to travel from Russia or Kazakhstan to some places that are not restricted.”

Dr. Dorogomilov looked at Dr. Volkova, who wore a sullen expression, as she was being left behind, and then said to Baron, “Would you get Anastasiya a travel visa and passport also?” he asked, forgetting himself and referring to her by her first name.

“Of course,” Baron said and gave her a smile to let her know she was to be included.

Hearing that she was not to be excluded from her lover’s new wealth and future, Dr. Volkova lost a little self-control. She reached over and squeezed Dr. Dorogomilov’s leg.

“Now, can you do it?” Baron then asked.

The doubt cast by the question changed the expression on Dr. Dorogomilov’s already bizarre-looking face to one of slight contempt at the lack of respect for his genius.

He gathered himself, trying not to show offense, realizing that customers for his miracles were not exactly in line outside the door. “Can I do it? Can I do it? I’m the only one ever to have created a specific monoclonal antibody and a method of linking it to the Ebola virus. I’m the only one in the world with a working inventory of Ebola Zaire, as well as variants, the most virulent of which I have made myself. The closest achievement elsewhere is in the primitive accomplishment of using monoclonal antibodies with CD 20, in patients with non-Hodgkins lymphoma--an injection of that locates and kills the cancer. That is the one that Jackie Kennedy died of. Apart from that, no one else has ever done anything even close to what I have done. And I’ve done it working with the most deadly of substances on the planet. You’d be surprised how difficult it is to work with something that you can only get near in a pressure suit and in a bio-hazard-level-four-containment facility. Any mistake, however small, is fatal. I can create an Ebola that is race specific and will only kill a given race.

“But,” he continued, “I’ve accomplished an exponentially greater feat. I’ve been able to modify the RNA of the Ebola, so that it will remain linked to the antibody upon reproduction. This means that the Ebola will continue to remain race specific when it kills its host and reproduces. Thereby, it will only kill the target race and continue to do so. This is my achievement!”

He looked at Baron to see his reaction and, seeing none, he decided to boast and up the ante of his miracles. “I’ve gone still further. I’ve even found unique antigens in the human brain that are associated with extremes in thinking patterns and have produced antibodies that can be linked to Ebola to go after such antigens. I did this with prisoners from Russia just before the breakup. I’ve discovered that there are two distinct types of brains, those who engage in extreme religious thinking, and those who do not. Those who engage in such extreme beliefs have an older type of brain, especially in the limbic system. It’s as though evolution is not the same for all, or at least not yet. I have even found parts of the frontal lobes that are active in religious people when praying to God. Religious people have frontal lobe activity when praying to God that is similar to that of talking to people, which means that they envision God as a person. The initial process is Single Photon Emission Computerized Tomography.”

And then he dropped a bombshell to clinch the business from Baron. “In other words, Baron, I can create an Ebola that only attacks fanatically religious people.”

Baron let his emotion show, which was rare, and said excitedly, “You’re joking!”

In a very serious response, the doctor announced, “I do not joke about my work.”

Thinking that he might, in the future, find a client who would pay a fortune beyond belief to eradicate Muslim terrorists, Baron asked, “Is that something you have ready to go or can make easily?”