The Martyr’s Curse

Chapter Fifty-One

‘Then what the hell is it?’ Ben asked, staring from Oppenheim to Luc Simon and back again.

‘You need to understand that there are various forms of plague,’ Oppenheim said. ‘The so-called bubonic variety, named after the “buboes” or black lumpy spots that are a characteristic symptom of that particular strain of the disease, is spread by fleas infected with the Y pestis bacterium. It can’t be contracted directly from a victim, which significantly reduces the rate and efficiency of the contamination. In effect, the disease is hamstrung by its own infection mechanism. It’s just not enough of a killer to fully account for the appalling virulence of the medieval Black Death, which spread like a bush fire through Europe and beyond and claimed some two hundred million lives during its short but nefarious history. Many scientists now think that the Black Death is more likely to have been a form of pneumonic plague.’

‘I’m not a doctor,’ Ben said impatiently. ‘These terms mean little to me.’

‘The diseases have plenty in common,’ Oppenheim explained. ‘Both have been used in biological warfare. In the fourteenth century, the Tartars catapulted corpses of bubonic plague victims over the city walls during the Siege of Kaffa. In World War Two, the Japanese packed infected fleas into bombs with the aim of spreading the disease among allied troops. Suitably callous tactics, but crude and limited due to their reliance on parasitic organisms to carry the contagion. By contrast, when the Soviets experimented with aerosolised Y pestis during the Cold War, they discovered they’d created a weapon of a whole other magnitude of lethality.’

‘Pneumonic plague?’

Oppenheim nodded. ‘Same active bacterial agent, our old friend Yersinia pestis. But what makes all the difference is that in the pneumonic variety, it’s airborne. You don’t need to be bitten by an infected flea to contract it. This thing is directly communicable from one living being to another, humans and animals alike. Proximity is all it takes. It can spread with incredible speed over a large area, the rate of infection continually multiplying as it takes hold. In short, pneumonic plague is to its bubonic sibling what a nuclear missile is to a handgun.’

Ben stared at him. ‘And this is what we’re dealing with here?’

‘Going by the pathology we’ve seen in both victims, Roth and Grubitz, then I’m very much afraid that that’s exactly what we’re dealing with,’ Oppenheim said. ‘It enters the lungs and swiftly takes over the entire system. Coughing and sneezing tend to be the first symptoms, quickly followed by violent fever and nausea, then uncontrollable bouts of seizures and bloody vomiting. Soon afterwards the system collapses into septic shock. Tissues break down and become necrotic and gangrenous. A horrible and agonising death ensues within hours.’

‘If that’s what happened to Roth and Grubitz, they had it coming,’ Ben said.

‘So does half of Europe, if we don’t do something to stop it,’ Oppenheim said. ‘Consider the mortality rates. Bubonic plague kills between one to fifteen per cent of victims if treated, and between forty to sixty per cent in untreated cases. In other words, even without medical aid, your chances can be better than fifty-fifty. Contrast that to pneumonic plague, which has a one hundred per cent fatality rate if the patient isn’t treated within the first twenty-four hours.’

‘Maybe it’s not as infectious as you think it is,’ Ben said, shaking his head. ‘I’m living proof of that. I wasn’t just exposed for those few moments at the safe house. I was down there in that hole, knee-deep in infected rat shit and breathing in God knows what kind of dust and spores and bacteria. So why didn’t I get it?’

Oppenheim spread his hands, as if to say good question. ‘Studies have been done that suggest some Europeans have a genetic immunity to plague bacteria, going back to medieval times. That’s one possible explanation. Another is the medication you were taking.’

Ben frowned. ‘What medication?’

‘Whatever the substance is inside the small brown glass dropper bottle that the arresting officers found on you at the safe house,’ Luc Simon said.

‘What, that? It’s just some kind of traditional tonic that Père Antoine gave me,’ Ben said. ‘I never really thought of it as medication.’

‘How much of it were you taking?’

‘Just a few drops every day,’ Ben said. ‘I gave some to Silvie Valois, too.’

‘Why?’

‘I like to keep my hostages in tip-top condition.’

‘What’s in it?’

‘I never asked.’

‘We’re having it analysed anyway,’ Luc Simon said. ‘I’m expecting a full chemical breakdown in the next few hours. It could be critical data for us.’

Ben was baffled by their interest in it. ‘Wait a minute. Are you trying to say there’s no modern drug treatment lined up to fight this disease?’

Oppenheim said nothing.

‘It is treatable?’ Ben repeated.

Oppenheim was quiet for a moment longer. ‘We’ve got a long history of combating plague, sure enough,’ he said. ‘And in recent times we learned to become more relaxed about what had long been a dreaded disease. As long as it was caught early, it was readily treatable with antibiotics. You’ll note my use of the past tense. Was. Because things are changing. In fact, they’ve already changed. We have a major problem. One that we were warned about, way back at the turn of the twentieth century, and happily ignored, when many doctors predicted that the antibiotic panacea wouldn’t last. In fact they warned that these sensational new wonder drugs could even do harm in the long run. Firstly, by causing people to become dependent on them for even the most minor infection, potentially compromising their natural immunity. The natural law of use it or lose it. Secondly, even back then they knew how fast microbes could mutate, adapt and evolve. The fear was that they could develop ways of resisting the drugs. But they were laughed at, and we went on to spend the entire twentieth century and the first decade of this century abusing the drugs wholesale. Now we know the doomsayers were absolutely right.’

Ben said nothing.

‘It’s happening right before our eyes,’ Oppenheim went on. ‘In the last fifteen years, we’ve seen a seventy per cent increase in deaths from antibiotic-resistant infection, and that figure is set to get much worse. Hospitals will soon become no-go areas due to the hazard of MRSA and other powerfully evolved micro-organisms. It’s a two-pronged problem. One, we’ve become weaker. Two, the enemy has become stronger. We underestimated the bugs, far more than we could have even imagined.’

‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ Luc Simon said. ‘I’ve read the reports myself.’

‘Microbes are incredibly adaptable things,’ Oppenheim said, almost glowing with admiration for the critters. ‘They’re smarter than us in a lot of ways. Some can even repair their own DNA, an incredible feat of bioengineering. Ultimately, they will be the downfall of humanity. In the short term, things aren’t looking so great either. The medical profession doesn’t want to admit it, but right now, we’re like deer in the headlights. In fact, there’s never been a worse time for a bacterial pandemic to happen. Our populations are at an all-time high, with unprecedented concentrations of people between whom disease can spread more efficiently than ever before. International travel makes our efforts to contain an outbreak practically impossible. Combine that with our lack of viable treatments and the majority of the population’s lowered immunity to infection …’ Oppenheim cracked a grim smile. ‘In short, we’re one small step away from being comprehensively screwed. My job is to stop us from taking that one small step.’

‘You said Streicher could be preparing a vaccine or a serum to protect himself and his own people,’ Ben said. ‘Couldn’t we do the same from this end?’

‘It’s a possibility,’ Oppenheim said. ‘But not a promising one. As unbelievable as it may sound, plague vaccines are still in their infancy. Drugs prepared from attenuated live Y pestis samples have only ever been tested on mice, and even then with limited efficacy. There are no guarantees of their success on humans, which goes for Streicher and his gang too. They could very well be dead already. Which would account for their disappearance, wouldn’t it? As for us, even if we were able to develop a workable antiserum to protect the public, what are the chances we could produce enough, and fast enough, to control a major outbreak?’

‘There has to be something that works,’ Ben said. ‘Did Torben Roth receive treatment before he died?’

Oppenheim nodded gravely. ‘Every antibiotic drug that’s ever been used to combat plague. Gentamicin, Streptomycin, Chloromycetin, Doxycycline, Ciprofloxacin, Tetracycline, you name it. Zero effect. The bacteria just marched on through. Like trying to hold off a tank division with a child’s popgun.’

‘It could be that he was too far gone already,’ Luc Simon said. ‘Perhaps if we’d been able to intervene sooner, he’d have survived.’

‘Or perhaps not,’ Oppenheim said. ‘It could simply be that our last line of defence has failed before the war has even begun.’ It was the first sign of friction Ben had seen between the two.

‘We can contain it,’ Luc Simon said firmly.

‘I’d love to say I could believe that,’ Oppenheim sighed, closing his eyes and pinching the bony bridge of his nose.

‘Plus, there are all kinds of other possibilities,’ Luc Simon said. ‘Consider the fact that Roth and Grubitz managed to contract the infection in the first place. How did that happen? Was their protective clothing compromised in some way? Grubitz was the first to catch it, so maybe his hazmat suit was faulty or got damaged during the raid, exposing him, and then Roth caught it from him afterwards.’

‘Anything’s possible,’ Oppenheim said.

‘Alternatively, it could have been one of the others,’ Luc Simon continued, leaning forward animatedly in his chair. ‘Roth or Grubitz could have caught it from any of them. Which could mean they’re all infected, one way or another. You said yourself, Streicher and his entire team could be dead already, precluding any attack from taking place.’

‘But what if they’re not?’ Oppenheim countered. ‘How much are we prepared to risk on wishful thinking? And then, what if they are dead? The bodies could be anywhere, leaking infection to any living thing that comes into contact with them.’

Luc Simon shrugged. ‘We need to hope for the best, that’s all.’

‘And plan for the worst,’ Ben said. He turned to Oppenheim. ‘What’s our darkest possible scenario here?’

Oppenheim shook his head. ‘Don’t even ask. You don’t want to know.’

‘I can take it,’ Ben said.

‘All right, then. Let’s say this lunatic is indeed still alive out there somewhere, and that he goes ahead with his plans, by whatever means, such as poisoning the water supplies or exploding a dirty bomb or spraying the stuff out of a helicopter. Let’s say he successfully kicks off the beginnings of an epidemic, and that it takes a hold and spreads rapidly, displaying the same extremely aggressive traits we’ve already seen in the two confirmed victims to date. Moreover, let’s say that our worst fears are confirmed, and the disease is resistant to even our most powerful antibiotics. And that we’re unable to produce effective substitute treatments such as vaccinations in time …’

‘Then?’

‘Then Europe might be about to see something it hasn’t seen for six centuries,’ Oppenheim said. ‘The outcome would be nightmarishly predictable. Widespread panic. Desperate crowds swarming the hospitals while others fled the cities altogether in the hope of avoiding the infection, jamming the roads and the transport systems solid. The emergency services strained far beyond capacity. The death toll rising faster than we can count it as the infection spreads exponentially. Thousands dead, virtually overnight. Then tens of thousands, then hundreds of thousands. People collapsing and dying even as they queue for useless treatments. Within months, or possibly just weeks, the number of dead rising into seven figures and still climbing. Meanwhile, a total breakdown of law and order. Riots and looting breaking out in every major city. Ultimately, police and medical services deserting their posts en masse to look out for themselves and their families. Or sick. Or dead already.’

Oppenheim paused and breathed out heavily. His face took on a pinched look that made it appear even more gaunt. ‘Then, suddenly, silence. No more sirens, no more helicopters in the air. Airports and railway stations, cities and motorways, all deserted. The streets empty, apart from the bodies strewn in the road and the vermin and scavengers come to feast on their rotting flesh.

‘Apocalypse.’