Ken McClure - Wildcard

‘In the circumstances, I think we should at least look at the medical history of the wildcards we didn’t inform Dr Dunbar about,’ said Macmillan.

‘So we delay bringing in the new emergency measures?’ asked the Home Secretary, looking to the others.

The meeting agreed with Macmillan, although with some reluctance since many still failed to see the relevance.

‘I don’t suppose anyone has done this already, by any chance?’ asked the Home Secretary.

‘As I understand it, the investigation of the patients’ backgrounds was confined to a period of forty-two days, that being twice the conceivable incubation time for such a virus,’ said the Health Secretary.

‘Very well, then, I will recommend to the PM that we delay declaring a national state of emergency for… how long?’

‘A week,’ suggested the hardest sceptics. Suggestions of two weeks and one of a month were whittled down to ten days.

‘What do you say, Dr Dunbar?’ asked the Home Secretary. ‘Can you come up with the source of this damned plague in ten days?’

‘I can but try,’ replied Steven.

‘Anything you need, from secretarial assistance to an aircraft carrier, you only have to ask.’

Steven’s first request when the meeting broke up was for food. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast and he planned to work through the night, using Sci-Med’s resources and computers to gather information about the undeclared wildcard cases. A small team of executive-grade civil servants was drafted in to help with fax and phone communications and by 9 p.m., when his Chinese takeaway arrived, the phone lines were buzzing.

He ate at a computer desk while setting up a new database to accommodate information on the new patients as it arrived. Macmillan came in and caught him with his mouth full. He just wanted to know if Steven had everything he needed and, when Steven nodded, said that there wasn’t much point in him hanging around. Steven agreed but sensed a reluctance in Macmillan to leave.

After an awkward pause, Macmillan cleared his throat and said, ‘I owe you an apology about the missing information. When it became apparent that a state of emergency might be declared, it was unanimously agreed that no further details about the crisis should leave these four walls. We just couldn’t risk it getting out and causing panic on the stock exchange and God knows where else.’

‘I understand,’ said Steven.

‘Call me if there’s any news.’

By midnight it was becoming clear that heart surgery was indeed the common factor. Nine of the fourteen wildcards had had heart surgery within the last year; information on the remaining five was still being sought. Steven called Caroline in Manchester to apologise for having had to rush away at such short notice and to tell her that he was finally making some progress, but there was no reply. He looked at his watch and hoped the reason was that she was fast asleep.

‘So what do we conclude?’ asked Macmillan when Steven phoned to tell him the news.

Steven took a deep breath and said, ‘I think we have to conclude that it was the surgery itself that gave them the virus.’

‘You mean they contracted a new filovirus as a post-operative infection?’ asked Macmillan incredulously.

‘Not in the conventional sense, but in a manner of speaking,’ replied Steven. ‘What we have to look for now is a common factor, something about the heart surgery that distinguishes these patients from the hundreds, if not thousands, of others who had heart surgery in the past year or so.’

By three in the morning Steven and the team had managed to obtain precise details of five of the operations, although they had had to deal with some pretty irascible people along the way at that time in the morning.

Steven rang Macmillan again as soon as he’d had time to appraise the information. He said, ‘It looks as if the common factor is going to be a prosthetic heart valve. So far, five patients have a record of having had replacement valves fitted. No cases of surgical repair so far.’

‘My God,’ said Macmillan. ‘Contaminated heart valves. Who would have believed it? You’ve done well.’

‘We’re not out of the woods yet,’ said Steven. ‘We still have to explain why there was a delay of many months before the infection took hold and how the valves came to be contaminated in the first place.’

‘And with a virus that no one’s ever come across before,’ added Macmillan.

‘Quite.’

‘Well, I’ll leave figuring that out in your capable hands,’ said Macmillan. ‘In the meantime, I’ll wake the PM with the news.’

Steven asked his team to put out immediate requests for the type and make of heart valve used in the surgery. In the meantime, details on three more patients came in: they, too, had had surgery to replace a damaged valve.

‘It’s looking good, folks,’ said Steven, accepting a mug of much-needed coffee from one of the civil servants. ‘We could be talking a champagne breakfast here.’

Shortly before first light the first fax sheet came in with technical details of the valve used in replacement surgery. A human-tissue valve had been used in the operation on Humphrey Barclay. It had been a pretty nigh perfect immunological match for him and anti-rejection measures had not been necessary. Steven swore bitterly under his breath.

At six-thirty, feeling thoroughly depressed, he called Macmillan and told him, ‘We’ve hit the wall. The first five results are in. They all had human-tissue valves fitted.’

‘But how can that be?’ asked Macmillan as if he were appealing to the gods for mercy.

‘I don’t know,’ confessed Steven.

‘One contaminated heart donor is a possibility, but there’s no way all those people could have received heart valves from the same person,’ said Macmillan.

‘My maths tells me that too,’ agreed Steven wearily. Tiredness was catching up with him.

‘Get some sleep. We’ll talk later.’

Steven took a cab home. The flat had been empty for some days and it was so cold that the air felt damp. He turned on the heating, then switched on the electric kettle and rubbed his arms while he waited for it to boil. It was just after seven-thirty. He would give Caroline a call before he tried to catch up on some sleep. There was still no answer. Steven tapped the receiver thoughtfully, wondering where she could be. As he sipped his coffee, huddled over the electric fire, curiosity became concern and then finally worry. He tried calling George Byars at the City General but he hadn’t come in yet. He decided to wait and try again. His third call, at 8.45, was successful.

Steven told Byars he’d been having trouble contacting Caroline Anderson. ‘Has she changed duty shifts, by any chance?’ he asked.

The ensuing pause was more eloquent than any answer could have been. It spoke volumes and Steven felt his stomach turn over.

‘I tried getting you at your hotel last night,’ said Byars softly. ‘Caroline’s gone down with it.’

‘Jesus, no,’ murmured Steven.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Byars.

‘Are they sure it’s the virus?’

‘There seems little doubt.’

‘Where is she?’

‘St Jude’s. Sister Lineham insisted on nursing her personally.’

Steven put the phone down without saying any more, feeling as if absolutely everything was going against him and he was fighting a battle against insurmountable odds. At that moment he envied people who believed in God, any god, because they at least had someone to lean on, someone to turn to and ask for help in times of trouble. For his part, he felt the devastation of an utter loneliness verging on despair. There was no way he was going to be able to sleep now. Apart from anything else, he had to consider the possibility that he himself might go down with the virus because he and Caroline had slept together. The thought sent a chill down his spine. However, there was nothing at all he could do about it. It would be a case of wait and see — que sera sera, or, as his grandmother had been fond of saying, ‘What’s coming for you will not go past you.’ He had a second mug of coffee to raise his caffeine levels while he worked out the quickest way of getting to Manchester.