“I was told that we are dealing with a variant of Ebola virus. I haven’t any other detail.”
“Actually this is what we know too. We have two planes, a small private jet and a Boeing with 250 passengers.”
“Don’t you know if the virus has already been released?”
“Negative. We don’t know this yet, but we must prepare for the worst scenario, and we must have clear ideas about what to do when these planes will land. What can we expect, Dr. Moore?”
The woman responds quickly and in an automaton-like tone. “Ebola is notoriously deadly. In the first cases, when it was still not well known, it caused a mortality rate close to 90%.”
The hushed voices inside the great hall fade slowly while the attention is drawn to the display where the scientist keeps talking. Only her voice, somewhat aseptic and impersonal as an autopsy room, is heard beyond the buzz of the devices.
“Currently this rate has decreased slightly, influenced by the capacity to provide adequate care gained by the countries in which the infection cases occur. The average stands around 53%, varying from 64% in Guinea to 39% in Sierra Leone. These rates relate to the original strain of the virus, of course. Speaking of a variant, modified in a laboratory… Well, the mortality rate could rise to absolute 100%, but having no further details I can’t guess a better estimate. I can provide you with further information about the symptoms and…”
“That’s fine, thank you Dr. Moore”, cuts Thompson. “This isn’t necessary right now. Please, be ready to leave in twenty minutes: we’ll send someone to pick you up. We are arranging a rescue team and we need you. You have free hand in the entire operation. That’s all for now.”
The picture of the woman in white coats, her expression a mixture of dismay and surprise, disappears from the screen before she can reply.
Thompson already moved back to Fred Gilmour’s workstation. His display is showing a map of the North America outlines with a flashing red dot. Two other dots, flashing green, approach it by the sides, following its route and reducing the distance at each screen update. “Where are our boys?”
“They are lining the target, sir”, replies the boy. He seems to be just over twenty years old. His prominent nose and the small and close-set eyes give him an appearance that recalls a weasel. “Two F14 took off from the Ronald Reagan. Fortunately, the aircraft carrier is now in the middle of the Atlantic. We have a total of four airplanes. Two of them are heading east, approaching the route of the Boeing.”
“That sounds great, Fred”, says Thompson. Then he moves a hand to his left ear and contacts the operator. “Janet, any chance to get into contact with the jet heading for New York?”
“Negative, sir, we tried to contact them, but they keep radio silence.”
Thompson squints while his thoughts issue a silent curse. “Janet, call the President, hand me the phone call in my office.” Then he turns to Ironside: “John, I have the President on line, give me a minute, manage the situation until I get back, we catch up later.”
Thompson turns, walking briskly toward one of the many security doors. He isn’t out yet when Janet’s voice breaks into the headset of Ironside. “Sir, I have the Russian contact on line again.”
“Okay, Janet, hand it to me on workstation 22.”
While Ironside leans on display, Leonidovich’s face appears on the screen.
The Russian agent has a look somewhere between suspicious and annoyed, and says nothing for a moment, staying so still that Ironside doubts whether it’s a static picture or a real time video call.
Maybe it’s just a feeling…
A feeling due to the knowledge that he is facing an intelligence representative of a country other than his own.
The face of Leonidovich comes to life emotionless. The man expresses himself in English but his way of speaking immediately betrays his origin. “I thought I was going to talk again with Secretary Thompson”, he says slowly.
“I am the Deputy Secretary John Ironside, Mr. Thompson is busy right now, feel free to talk with me.”
Leonidovich hesitates for a moment, considering whether or not to keep the conversation going, then he makes his decision. “All right, Mr. Ironside. The reason for this further contact is to emphasize how much our government cares that our nations work together to solve as soon as possible this unfortunate situation. One of our experts is already in flight. He will assist you to manage and contain the possible spread of the pathogen. The aircraft on which Dr. Alexander Ivanov travels is heading for the Algiers-Houari Boumediene airport. Obviously, there is no need to remind you how much our nation would appreciate the utmost discretion… This is all for now, Mr. Ironside. Do svidanja.”
The communication interrupts abruptly and the screen switches again to standby.
ALGERIAN DESERT
Young Ahmed’s dark eyes stare at the immense sea of sand that stretches out of sight before him. Life in the small village behind him flows languidly in the eternal struggle for survival in the hostile environment of the African desert, cadenced by the slow rhythms of daily tasks. It’s a tiny cluster of huts, built mostly with earth and wood, protected by high rocky hills. The occasional sound of a donkey or a dromedary breaks the silence.
Beside the boy, one of the village dogs appears to be taken by the vision too. The half-breed doesn’t have a name, nor do the other dogs lounging in the shade of a rocky outcrop. His coat is fawn, mottled by dark patches, similar to that of a hyena. He always follows the young Ahmed and responds promptly when he whistles to call him. Sometimes they play together, the boy throws a stone or a bone and the dog runs to bring it back, standing on his hind legs to lick the boy’s face.
It’s the only dog that behaves in this way in the village.
Once Mohamed-the-Elder, one of the village oldest men, during one of the evenings spent by the fire, told him about the mysterious djinn: “ …the spirits that wander in the desert, and sometimes assume the appearance of solitary wayfarers or animals, to make fun of unwary travelers and eventually kidnap them. ”
“If I meet someone in the desert, how do I know if it’s a djinn who has taken the form of a man?”, once the boy asked.
The old man took a very long drag from a hookah and exhaled a smoky aroma, sweet and spicy, watching it dancing and getting lost in the starry sky. “You know… djinn are strange”, he finally answered. “Though they may conceal their true shape, there is always… a detail that betrays them. Something that seems out of place. Take your dog for example. In my life I have never seen one getting up on its hind legs like that, and stand straight as a man would do. It’s not natural.”
At these words the boy felt a cold shiver down his spine, but he managed to control himself without showing it. He was sitting with men, he could not show childish attitudes. “You’re saying that my dog is a djinn?”, he asked.
“Who can say? Look at the world, boy, find these answers yourself. Even though… if I were you I would be careful not to show him my back, especially when you are alone and in an isolated place…”
“Are they evil?”, the boy asked, more and more intrigued.
“Answer this question, young Ahmed: is man evil by his nature?”
The elder inhaled another puff from the hookah, then he continued, without waiting for the reply of the boy. The smoke exhaled from the mouth and nose as he spoke, and joined the wrinkles on his face framed by completely white hair and beard. It gave him a mystical and otherworldly aura. “There are evil djinn, but not necessarily. They are capricious sometimes, that’s true, but in most cases they are just sad and very, very lonely beings. Now that I’m older I can understand them well, even if my life, which appears so long to me, it’s just a blink of an eye for them. They walk about here and there since the dawn of time, they have lived longer than any man on earth, and men… huh, they have known many. I don’t blame them if they are bored and a little disappointed. It’s said that some of them can give great gifts if greeted with kindness and with good hospitality.