Daniel Kalla - Pandemic

“Is it a pill?” Gwen asked.

Moskor nodded. “We’re using one hundred milligrams twice a day, but it’s likely that once a day would do the trick.”

“Do the results depend on the stage of the infection?”

Moskor grinned. “Ah, kid, I taught you well, didn’t I? The curse of most antivirals is that unless given early—the first forty-eight to seventy-two hours of infection—they don’t work worth a damn. Of course earlier is always better than later, but A36112 seems to work at any point of the infection.” His grin grew wider. “Eighty percent of our chimps lost their fever within twenty-four hours of treatment.”

Swept up in Moskor’s enthusiasm, Gwen rose from her seat and hovered over the diagram as if it were a treasure map. “What about human trials?” she asked.

Moskor nodded. “Took us a while to steer through Ethics and get FDA approval, but phase one trials have begun on volunteers.”

Gwen nodded. She knew that phase one trials weren’t used to prove much more than the drug wasn’t more dangerous than the disease it was trying to treat “Preliminary resultst” she asked.

“So far, so good.” Moskor shrugged. “Ten to twenty percent get diarrhea, just like our poor monkeys. But give sugar pills to people and ten to twenty percent will get explosive diarrhea, too.”

“Where would we be without the old placebo effect? Makes snake oil so damn effective,” Gwen smiled. “You don’t have any industry sponsorship on this, right?”

As soon as it left her lips, Gwen knew it was a dumb question; Moskor’s contempt for pharmaceutical companies bordered on hatred.

His brow furrowed until his hairline pulled forward. His eyes darkened. “The only parasites I work with are those of the microbiological variety.” He almost spat the words. “Those drug company sons of bitches don’t care one whit for the people the research might help. Look at what they’ve done in Africa. They’d rather encourage genocide than lower their profits on the HIV anti-retrovirals. Makes me sick to even talk about them.”

Savard didn’t hold the same belief, but they had argued the point too many times for her to raise it again. She just nodded. “Isaac, I know how you feel, but with phase two and three trials looming, you need resources…”

“We’ve got NIH funding. We’ll get whatever resources we need.”

Gwen leaned in closer to Moskor and rested a hand on his. “Isaac, I can help.”

The anger dissipated from Moskor’s face. He let out a familiar, low-pitch chuckle. “The federal government is interested in finding a cure for the flu?”

“Especially if I make it a matter of national security, Isaac.”

Money. In a country without government or law, money is both, Hazzir Kabaal thought. And his had served him well.

The gray tin-roofed complex, which consisted of a two-storey building with a single-storey annex, could have passed for a warehouse from the outside. It stood eight miles outside of the impoverished northern Somali town of Hargeysa, the capital of the disputed region of Somaliland. Warlords, clans, secessionists, and foreign powers like Ethiopia all fought unsuccessfully for control of the region. As a result, leadership and allegiances varied from street to street. This might have posed a problem for someone assembling a covert guerilla operation, but Kabaal’s deep pockets allowed order to prevail within the anarchy.

The local militia secured access to all roads leading to and from the facility. Their machine guns and shoulder grenade launchers kept the curious and the nosy at bay. And they oversaw the safety of the steady stream of unmarked trucks, which transported in the lab equipment and medical supplies that made the precarious journey up from Mogadishu. Aware that all movement in Somalia was monitored from the sky by U.S. satellites, the drivers followed a similar route and schedule as the drug runners and other supply trucks in the area. Perimeter security of the complex fell to Kabaal’s men, who were a far better trained and equipped group of Egyptian fighters than the Somali militia. The Egyptians were faithful above all to The Brotherhood and the man who had handpicked them, Major Abdul Sabri.

In a traditional robe but clean-shaven and wearing six-hundred-dollar desert boots, Kabaal met Dr. Anwar Aziz and Major Abdul Sabri at the entryway. Stepping inside, Kabaal was again reminded what a good choice he had made in his two lieutenants. The unlikely pair had managed to convert an old military hospital complex, abandoned for over ten years and likely not much to begin with, into an impressive camouflaged laboratory facility.

Short and stout, Dr. Anwar Aziz had a round expressionless face with small bespectacled eyes and a closely cropped beard. From his brisk gait to his perfectly ironed white lab coat, everything about the fifty-year-old Jordanian microbiologist emanated scientific precision.

Major Abdul Sabri stood silently beside Aziz. In contrast to the scientist, Sabri’s speech and movement were unhurried to the point of languid. Despite his simple galabiya, the traditional Egyptian workingman’s floor-length robe, Sabri was still an intimidating sight. Tall and muscular, his large head boasted a beardless face with jarringly delicate, almost feminine features accentuated by light blue eyes—rare for an Arab. Kabaal couldn’t separate Sabri’s daunting physical presence from the man’s history. As a member of the Egyptian Army’s Special Forces, Sabri had seen extensive action, fighting primarily on native soil against Islamic rebels. Despite the highly classified nature of these operations, Kabaal had heard of Sabri’s legendary reputation within the military for getting the job done at any cost. After leaving the army at forty, for reasons unexplained, Sabri had thrown his lot in with those who were once his bitter enemies.

Though Kabaal knew that both Aziz and Sabri were devoutly religious, he had little illusion about their motives. Aziz was above all a scientist, and Sabri a soldier. The operation was an excuse for both of them to exercise their passions, but motives didn’t concern Kabaal; only loyalty and results mattered.

After exchanging brief pleasantries, Aziz and Sabri toured Kabaal through the facility. They started in the main building on the second floor, which once was a large open hospital ward and had since been divided into a series of offices and storage rooms. When they reached a set of sealed metal doors leading to a locked area, Aziz jabbed a stubby finger at them and said, “Subject evaluation.” Kabaal did not require further explanation to know what went on behind the doors.

Aziz led Kabaal and Sabri down a different set of stairs from which they had come up. They walked out of the stairwell, through a small corridor, and into a large open laboratory on the main floor of the annex. The room buzzed. Everyone was in motion. No one stopped to acknowledge the visitors. White-coated technicians busied themselves at computers and workstations. Others worked under vented lab hoods, their arms slipping through holes in the glass and into long, orange rubber gloves that allowed them to manipulate the test tubes and containers inside without risking self-contamination.

Following Aziz around the makeshift virology lab, Kabaal tried to digest the stream of rapid-fire information, but much of the jargon-laden explanations sailed over his head. Still, he felt giddy, delighting in the technological trappings his money had assembled. Centrifuges, freezers, incubators, vented lab stations, and computers were everywhere. The sight filled Kabaal with a sense of purpose. Silently he thanked Allah for choosing him for the pivotal mission.