Brian Freemantle - Dead End

‘Which no one would have understood at the time, because the human flu virus wasn’t isolated until 1933,’ intruded Lapidus.

‘We know that of the fifteen different strains of bird influenza that have been identified, only three until now have ever mutated to infect humans, in 1918, 1957 and 1968,’ said Sato. ‘What they haven’t been able to discover is why, having made the species jump from bird to human, it becomes so pathogenic from human to human.’ He hesitated again, to make a point. ‘I’ve pieced together some other already published data. We’ve got Tokyo’s material to confirm the opinions, but one analysis suggests the current avian flu is similar to the human virus that caused the 1968 pandemic. There’s another theory that it possibly has a haemagglutinin-type protein like that of 1918.’

No one, not even Lapidus, spoke for several moments, digesting what the Japanese-American had just suggested. It was Parnell who said: ‘You just outlined a double-barrelled, global pandemic that would make a death toll of twenty million in 1918 little more than a starting figure.’

‘I know,’ said Sato, quietly. ‘It frightens the shit out of me.’

‘This information’s public?’ questioned Beverley.

‘On the Internet for everyone to read,’ said Sato, gesturing towards the dead-eyed computer at his station. ‘Who knows how many people have put it together?’

‘Why hasn’t there been some WHO warning?’ demanded Lapidus.

‘Against what?’ demanded Parnell, in return, surprised at the question. ‘There’s no vaccine or prevention – that’s what we’re supposed to be trying to find. To issue dire predictions and make the connections that Sean has just done would simply cause panic.’

‘Scripps – and London – synthesized haemagglutinin?’ queried Beverley.

‘That’s my understanding,’ agreed Sato. ‘I’ve downloaded individual copies of everything I’ve found for all of us.’

‘If it’s synthesized, we’ve got something positive to begin with,’ judged Beverley.

‘I’m frightened as shitless as Sean by his doomsday scenario,’ said Parnell. ‘Let’s start by making the most obvious comparison open to us, the synthesized haemagglutinin against what’s come in from Tokyo, looking for matching spikes… matching anything. And then against the 1968 Hong Kong flu, to see if there’s a possible fit.’

‘Which way are you thinking of going?’ asked Lapidus.

‘The only way,’ answered Parnell. ‘One step after the other. You got any thoughts?’

The Greek scientist shook his head. ‘Don’t like the idea we can’t culture in chicken eggs.’

‘At the moment that’s the least of our problems. Let’s get reading and get started.’

Despite Lapidus’s assurance Parnell crossed to Kathy Richardson’s office, forbidding her from going anywhere near the specialized laboratory in which the potentially virulent Asian samples were being stored, but asked her to prepare files in which they could record and cross-reference their experiments. The woman said she had already been told and appreciated the dangers, reminding him with a hint of stiffness that she had long experience as a medical secretary. Parnell also asked her to obtain a map of the flu-affected countries in Asia upon which the incidence of outbreaks could be charted. He dictated a lengthy email to Tokyo, asking why they had included the SARS material in their shipment, and requested daily reports on the increase or otherwise of flu outbreaks in the region, to update his intended map, and advised in advance that he might ask for more physical samples.

Parnell entered Russell Benn’s laboratory complex at the end of what had obviously been a similar conference to the one he’d just held, and was ushered at once into the man’s side office with the permanently percolating coffee and the Dubette-logo mugs. The black professor described what he’d just conducted as a jam session, as yet without any formulated approach apart from chemically reanalysing what Tokyo had already done. He didn’t know why the SARS stuff had been included either, and looked forward to Tokyo’s reply to Parnell’s query. He listened intently to an account of the geneticists’ discussion and, when Parnell finished, said: ‘Jesus H. Christ!’

‘It’s theory at this stage,’ cautioned Parnell.

‘With a basis,’ argued Benn. ‘You told Dwight?’

‘Nothing to tell him, until we’ve satisfied ourselves. We know the cause – it’s the way to the cure or prevention we’re looking for.’

‘I haven’t said how sorry I am, about Rebecca,’ declared the other man, suddenly. ‘Which I am, truly sorry. And for what it almost caused you, personally. With terrorism in the mix, it’s one big crock of shit.’

‘Let’s hope the FBI can sort it out.’ Parnell regretted Benn’s reminder. For a brief while it had actually gone out of his mind but now it was back.

‘They any idea what it’s all about?’

‘None.’

‘I guess they’ll be spending time here?’

‘I guess,’ said Parnell, guardedly. He didn’t want to say or do anything to anyone that might stop the exchange of information between himself and the FBI investigators.

‘It must be distracting.’

‘I’ll cope.’ How well, Parnell wondered, remembering the difficult drive from Washington and Barbara Spacey’s analysis.

‘Look forward to our working properly together.’

‘So do I,’ said Parnell. He hesitated, on the point of trying to draw the man on the French experimentation that Dwight Newton had dismissed as a failure, but decided against it. It was hopefully something he could learn – or at least get a guide to – from the FBI. After itemizing it as he had that morning, it was inevitable the two Bureau agents would ask about it.

At Giorgio Falcone’s insistence Parnell travelled in the lead funeral car. Apart from the restaurateur, there were two occasionally weeping aunts and a niece. What whispered conversation there was between them was in Italian. In English, to Parnell, Falcone said: ‘Dubette offered to pay for everything. I told them I didn’t want their charity.’

‘I thought you might,’ said Parnell. He’d been surprised by the Dubette contingent in the following cars. Personnel director Wayne Denny was with Dwight Newton, Russell Benn and Burt Showcross and two other men whom Parnell didn’t know but assumed to be from Rebecca’s division. He hadn’t expected Barry Jackson or the two FBI men, either.

‘The undertakers told me they’ve sent four wreaths, one from the president himself.’

‘Rebecca was very popular. They valued her work.’

‘That’s what the man said who came to see me about paying for the funeral. The FBI came, too, yesterday. Asked me about the previous boyfriend, like you did. I wasn’t able to help them beyond what I told you. Do they think he did it?’

‘No,’ said Parnell. ‘They need to talk to everyone who knew Rebecca.’

‘And they’ve searched Rebecca’s house. They wanted a key. They asked for photographs of her, too.’

What had they found at the house? wondered Parnell. He felt exhausted, straining to keep any coherence in his speculation. He’d worked until nine on the day of his return to Dubette and wished he hadn’t when he’d finally left the complex, because the car lot was almost deserted. And now, almost two days later, he ached physically from what he imagined he had to do to remain alert to everything and everybody around him. He’d scarcely slept on the night of the return, and the following day actually jumped, only just stopping short of crying out, at a lorry’s backfire. And after that stared so hard at whom he judged to be two different suspiciously behaving men on two separate occasions that they’d frowned back with equal suspicion, one, Parnell guessed, on the point of confronting him to ask what the hell he was doing. Although he knew it was an irrational expectation and was impatient with himself for it, he’d still wanted something positive from their experiments and had been tetchy with everyone when there wasn’t. He’d hardly slept the previous night, either. And he’d eaten nothing since he couldn’t remember when but crackers and cheese and now there was none left of either in the apartment. All the wine had gone, too.