Daniel Kalla - Pandemic

He squeezed her knee. “When I get back—”

She shook her head. “Noah, there’s no point in talking about it until you are back.”

“I think we need to talk about it now,” Haldane said. “This is about more than just you and me.”

Anna stiffened in her seat. She pulled his hand off her leg and put her mug down on the coffee table. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Sometimes, you don’t act like you know it,” he said.

She grunted a humorless laugh, and eyed him stonily. “You disappeared for over four months. Besides, you were gone before you left. Remember?” she said, referring to the stormy few months when Noah, by his own admission, had withdrawn from their marriage.

Haldane knew better than to let it escalate, but he couldn’t help himself. “And that was reason enough to fall in love with someone else?”

She crossed her arms. “I wasn’t looking for an excuse to. I was very lonely. It just happened, Noah.”

“Bullshit, Anna,” he snapped. “It doesn’t just happen. I know I left you and Chloe, but there was a crisis going on, remember? I was needed over there.”

“I needed you here,” she said softly, looking down at her feet.

“Me?” He grunted. “Or just somebody?”

She shook her head without looking up. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“No, Anna, I don’t. But you had better make up your mind soon. I’m not sharing you with another partner.” He paused for a deep breath. “You are going to have to choose between her and me.”

Despite the sunshine and cloudless blue sky, the autumn chill brought a shiver to Haldane who, expecting warmer weather, was jacketless. Nonetheless, he welcomed the crisp Geneva air, which provided a partial reprieve from the exhaustion, jet lag, and slight hangover that were blending into a throbbing headache.

He stood with his suitcase slung over one shoulder and his laptop the other-4here had been no time to stop at his hotel on the way in from the airport—while he surveyed the familiar WHO headquarters. In the foreground fluttered a big blue WHO Bag, which consisted of the UN flag with a superimposed caduceus (staff and serpent). In the background rose the imposing main building whose waffle-style design looked a little more dated with each visit. What caught his eye this time was the never before seen show of force. Armed guards shouldering automatic rifles were posted on the street and at the entryways. An incongruent sight for peaceful Switzerland, but since the lethal bombing of a UNICEF meeting in Baghdad the UN wasn’t taking chances. Haldane found all the security measures a depressing reminder that the world was a little less safe than it used to be.

He lingered for a few more breaths of the refreshing air before heading up the main pathway. After flashing his credentials for two sets of guards, he entered the foyer where an assistant met him, stored his suitcase, and shepherded him up to the tenth-floor conference room.

The meeting was already in progress when Haldane stepped inside. With his usual French flourish Dr. Jean Nantal rose from his seat and rushed over to greet Noah with a hug and kiss on each cheek. “Ah, Noah, how good of you to come.”

Impeccably groomed, lean with a long narrow face, Dr. Jean Nantal appeared the epitome of a distinguished European professor. In his mid-sixties, Nantal was a legend in Public Health circles. In his youth, he had been one of the architects of the wildly successful international smallpox eradication program of the ’60s and ’70s. With his ready smile and soothing French accent, the WHO’s Executive Director of Communicable Diseases had a gift for putting people at ease, which helped explain his enormous popularity and his ability to draw Herculean effort and self-sacrifice from his staff.

“Hello, Jean,” Haldane said. “Sorry, I couldn’t get over any sooner.”

Nantal waved his hand as if it were a bird taking flight. “Nonsense, Noah. We appreciate you coming on such short notice.” He indicated the others in the room with a sweep of his hand. “I think you know everyone here, NON?”

Noah nodded to the three people at the table. “Hello, Helmut,” he said to Helmut Streicher, the stern young Austrian epidemiologist with blond hair and brooding grayish blue eyes. “Milly.” He smiled at the petite shy Taiwanese microbiologist, My Li Yuen, who called herself Milly, if she spoke at all. But he saved his warmest wet-come for Duncan McLeod, the gangly Scottish virologist and fellow emerging pathogens expert who, personality aside, made an unforgettable impression thanks to his flaming red hair, scraggly beard, and lazy left eye. “Duncan, how the hell are you?” Noah asked.

“Great! Shite! Couldn’t be better,” McLeod bellowed with typical loud irreverence. “The Chinese have finally done it this time, Haldane. Unleashed unholy Armageddon on us from one of their overcrowded farms. And the best part? Jean’s going to drop us into the eye of the hurricane like a couple of ill-fated palm trees!”

“Ah, Duncan, always so colorful.” Nantal laughed. “I think you are getting ahead of yourself.” He turned to Haldane. “Have you had a chance to peruse the material we sent?”

Haldane rummaged through his carrying case, pulling out the e-mail printouts, before sliding into the seat beside Yuen. “I read through what you sent, Jean, but there are a few holes in the picture.”

“No shite!” McLeod piped up. “You could drive a tank through them”

Nantal flashed his unflappable smile. “Let’s review what we do know, shall we?’ He looked over at Streicher, “Helmut, for Noah’s benefit, do you mind reviewing the fascinating details you’ve just shared?”

Streicher frowned before reaching for the open laptop computer in front of him. “Please.” He pointed at the screen on the far wall. He clicked the mouse and a map of China appeared. He tapped a key and the map zoomed in on northern China. An area in the screen’s center, roughly the shape of Florida, turned light pink. “Gansu Province.”

Streicher clicked the mouse again. A small red “X” appeared north of the largest regional center, Jiayuguan City. “First known infection was documented on a farm fifty miles north of Jiayuguan City.”

“Same old story, Haldane,” McLeod cut in. “Pigs, sheep, ducks, and Farmer Chan all drinking out of the same water supply. Common waste system, too. Shite! The whole farm probably ate with the same pair of bloody chopsticks. Their viruses allowed to—no. hell, encouraged to—mingle, share DNA secrets, and superinfect each other’s hosts. Lo and behold we get the second coming of the plague.”

McLeod waved to My Li Yuen in a belated “no offense” gesture, but his diatribe had no visible effect on her. His acknowledgment, however, caused her to flush. “I know, Duncan,” she said in a slight high-pitched voice with only a trace of an accent. “You don’t hate all Chinese, right?” she giggled.

“Very true. Especially the Taiwanese. Marvelous folks. Shite, Milly, truth be known, I’ve got a gigantic crush on you.” He blew her a kiss, which drew another giggle and a deeper shade of red from the microbiologist.

“As I was saying,” Streicher said, unamused. “According to the authorities the first four cases, two adults and two children, developed symptoms just over three weeks ago. ”

“Has the Chinese government played ball so far?” Haldane asked.

Nantal nodded. “Noah, it seems they’ve learned from their last experience,” he said, without specifying the SARS outbreak. “They’re the ones who invited us to come.”

“Fucking great!” hollered the redheaded Scot “I was wondering where to send the thank-you card!”