The Pharaoh's Secret

12

For a moment, Kurt was at a loss for words. “Say that again” was all he could muster.

“I don’t blame you for being surprised,” she said. “As Dr. Ravishaw said, the situation is highly irregular.”

“More like crazy,” he replied. “You can’t really believe you’re going to reanimate people like some kind of witch doctor?”

“We’re not ghouls,” she said. “It’s just that the men and women in that cargo bay aren’t dead. At least not yet. And we’re desperately trying to find some method of waking them back up before they do pass on.”

Kurt considered what she was saying. “I checked several of them myself,” he replied. “They weren’t breathing. On my rounds, while I was waiting for the Italian military to arrive, I passed rooms filled with patients hooked up to EKGs: there were no heartbeats.”

“Yes,” she said, “I’m aware of that. But the fact is, they are breathing and their hearts are pumping blood. It’s just that their respiration is extremely shallow and occurring at long intervals, with less than one breath every two minutes on average. Their heart rates are hovering in the single digits and the ventricular contractions are so weak that a typical monitor won’t pick them up.”

“How can that be?”

“They’re in a type of coma,” she said, “a type we’ve never seen before. With a normal coma, certain parts of the brain are switched off. Only the deepest, most primitive sections continue functioning. It’s assumed that the body does this as a defense mechanism, allowing the brain or body to heal itself. But these patients show residual activity in all parts of their brains, yet they’re unresponsive to any drug or stimuli we’ve tried so far.”

“Can you give that to me in layman’s terms?”

“No damage has been done to their brains,” she said, “but they can’t wake up. If you imagine them to be computers, it’s as if someone put them on standby or sleep mode and no amount of pressing the on switch will get them functioning again.”

Kurt knew just enough human physiology to get himself in trouble, so he decided to ask rather than jump to conclusions. “If their hearts are pumping so softly and infrequently and pumping such little amounts of blood, and their breathing is so restrained, don’t they risk oxygen deprivation and brain damage?”

“Hard to say,” she replied. “But we think they’re existing in a state of suspended animation. Low body temperatures and low levels of cellular activity mean their organs are using very little oxygen. That could mean the shallow breathing and weak cardiovascular activity is enough to keep them healthy, enough to keep their brains intact. Have you ever seen someone pulled from frigid water after a near drowning?”

Kurt nodded. “Years back, I rescued a boy and his dog from a frozen lake. The dog had chased a squirrel onto the ice and got stuck when his hind legs broke through. The boy tried to help him, but the ice cracked and both of them plunged into the water. By the time we got them out, the poor child was blue, he’d been underwater for seven minutes or more. He should have been long dead. The dog should have died too, but the paramedics were able to bring them both back. The boy ended up being fine. No brain damage at all. Is that what we’re talking about here?”

“We hope so,” she said, “though it’s not exactly the same. In the boy’s case, the frigid water caused a spontaneous reaction in his body that could be reversed once he was brought back to a normal temperature. These people didn’t face such an instant temperature change; they were affected by some kind of toxin. And, at least so far, neither warming nor cooling nor electric shock nor direct injections of Adrenalin nor anything in our Frankenstein’s bag of tricks has been able to bring them out of it.”

“So what kind of toxin are we dealing with?” Kurt asked.

“We don’t know.”

“It has to be the smoke from that freighter.”

“You would think,” she said, nodding, “but we’ve sampled the smoke. There’s nothing more than burned petroleum fumes in it, with a slight mix of lead and asbestos, no different than what you’d find from any shipboard fire.”

“So the fire and the cloud enveloping the island are just a coincidence? Somehow, I don’t buy that.”

“Neither do I,” she said. “But there’s nothing in that cloud to cause what we’ve seen. At worst, it could produce irritated eyes, wheezing and asthma attacks.”

“So if it’s not the smoke from the ship, then what?”

She paused, studying him for a second, before continuing. Kurt sensed she’d decided to speak more freely. “We believe it was nerve toxin, weaponized by the explosion, either deliberately or accidentally. Many nerve agents are short-lived. The fact that we find no trace of it in the soil, air or in blood and tissue samples from the victims tells us that whatever agent it might have been, biological or chemical, it lasts no more than a few hours.”

Kurt saw the logic, but still other things made no sense. “But why use something like that against a place like Lampedusa?”

“We have no idea,” she said. “So we’re leaning toward accident.”

As Kurt considered that, he glanced around the room. There were medical terms scribbled on two whiteboards behind the desk. A list of various drugs they’d tried crossed through. He also spotted a map of the Mediterranean with several pins stuck in it. One marked a spot in Libya, another was pinned to a section of the northern Sudan. Several others were in the Middle East and sections of Eastern Europe.

“You called this an attack in your radio message,” he said, nodding toward the board. “I’m guessing you suspected it was an attack because this isn’t the first incident of its kind.”

She pursed her lips. “You’re too observant for your own good. The answer is yes. Six months ago, a group of radicals in Libya were found in this same state. No one knew what happened to them. They died eight days later. Because of Italy’s historic ties with Libya, my government agreed to look into it. We soon discovered similar incidents in various Libyan hospitals and then in all of the places you see marked on the map. In each case, radical groups or powerful figures slipping into unexplained comas and dying. We formed a task force, took this ship as our floating lab and began looking for answers.”

Kurt could appreciate that type of response. “What’s your part in all this?”

“I’m a doctor,” she replied with indignation. “A specialist in neurobiology. I work for the Italian government.”

“And you just happened to be on Lampedusa when the attack came?”

She sighed. “I was on Lampedusa watching the only suspect we’ve been able to link to the incidents. A doctor who worked at the hospital.”

“No wonder you knew how to protect yourself and the others,” Kurt noted.

She nodded. “When you’ve done the work I’ve done, seen the things I’ve seen, in Syria, Iraq and other places, you have nightmares of people falling dead in front of you, invisible gas poisoning your body and destroying your cells. You become very aware of your surroundings. Defensive. Almost paranoid. And, yes, when I saw that cloud and the people falling as it reached them, I knew instantly what was happening. I just knew.”

Kurt respected her history and her reflexes. “So the dead man,” he said. “The one who attacked us. Was he your suspect?”

“No,” she said. “We don’t know who he is. He obviously had no ID on him. He has no truly distinguishing marks and his fingerprints have been burned off — I would assume deliberately — nothing but scar tissue left there. We have no record of anyone matching his description arriving on the island. Normally, that wouldn’t tell you much, but with all the immigration and asylum seekers who come to Lampedusa, everyone gets documented thoroughly whether they land at the airport, come through the harbor or wash up onshore in a dilapidated raft.”

“So if the man with the gun is not your suspect, who is?”

“A doctor named Hagen. He worked in the hospital part-time. Hagen has a shady past. We knew he was waiting to take delivery of something and we knew it was to arrive today. We just didn’t know where it was coming from, who was delivering it or what exactly it was. But we were able to confirm his presence in three of the locations during and before the time of the other attacks. So we believe he was connected.”

Kurt put the parts together. “So the dead man with the gun was the courier,” he said, “bringing this nerve agent or toxin to your Dr. Hagen, when it literally blew up in his face.”

“That’s our theory,” she replied.

“And what about Hagen?”

She offered a dour look. “Of the roughly five thousand people on Lampedusa, Hagen is the only one currently unaccounted for. We had him under constant surveillance, but, unfortunately, the team was afflicted by the toxin like everyone else.”

Kurt leaned back in his chair and stared up at the ceiling, his eyes settling on a line where two different shades of paint overlapped, forming a third, darker color. “So a deadly cloud covers the island and the only two people apparently immune to its effects are your suspect and the man who tried to kill us.”

She nodded. “Correct. Does that tell you something?”

Of course it did. “They have some kind of antidote,” he said. “Something that blocks the paralyzing effects of whatever toxin caused these comas.”

“Our thinking exactly,” she said. “Unfortunately, we’ve found nothing in Hagen’s office or his home or his vehicle that can help us. Nor have we found anything in the dead man’s blood that would allow us to guess what the antidote was.”

“Is that surprising?” Kurt asked.

“Not really,” she said. “Since the nerve agent was short-lived, it stands to reason that any antidote would have a short half-life as well.”

Kurt could see the progression now. “So the antidote has already decayed. But if you could find your missing doctor, he might be persuaded to tell you where we can get some more.”

She grinned broadly. “You’re very sharp, Mr. Austin.”

“Stop calling me that,” he said. “It makes me feel old.”

“Kurt, then,” she said. “Call me Renata.”

He liked that. “Any idea where your suspect might be hiding?”

She gave him a sideways glance. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.”

“You’re not planning on looking for him, are you?”

“Of course not,” Kurt said. “That sounds dangerous. Whatever would make you think such a thing?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said coyly. “Only everything I’ve seen from you so far, backed up by a conversation I had with the Assistant Director of the National Underwater and Marine Agency shortly before you broke into my temporary medical ward.”

Kurt offered a droll look. “You spoke to my boss?”

“Rudi Gunn,” she said. “Yes. Charming man. He told me you’d probably ask to help. And if I refused your offer, you’d get involved anyway and most likely muck everything up.”

She wore a permanent grin now, so pleased with the direction of the conversation that Kurt could easily guess what had transpired. “So how much did he sell me for?”

“I’m afraid he gave you away for a song.”

“O sole mio?”

“Not quite sole,” she said. “He threw in Mr. Zavala as a bonus.”

Kurt feigned indignation at being traded to the Italians like a minor-league ballplayer, but he was more than happy with the deal. “So do I get paid in euros or—”

“Satisfaction,” she said. “We’re going to find the people that did this and we’re going to stop whatever it is they’re up to. And if we’re lucky, the antidote that kept Hagen and the assailant from succumbing to the toxin can be used to bring the victims out of their comas.”

“Couldn’t ask for better compensation,” Kurt replied. “Where do we start?”

“Malta,” she said. “Hagen made three trips there in the past month.”

She opened a drawer, removed a file folder and pulled from it a set of surveillance photos that she handed to Kurt. “He met with this man several times. Even had a heated argument with him last week.”

Kurt studied the photo. It showed a scholarly man in a tweed jacket with elbow patches. He was sitting at an outdoor café, speaking with three men. It looked more like he was being surrounded.

“The one in the middle is Hagen,” she said. “The other two, we’re not sure. His entourage, I suppose.”

“Who’s the professorial-looking fellow?”

“The curator of the Maltese Oceanic Museum.”

“I don’t get it,” Kurt said. “Museum curators don’t normally rub elbows with terrorists and those trafficking in nerve gas and biological weapons. Are you sure there’s a connection?”

“We’re not sure of anything,” she admitted. “Except that Hagen has been meeting with this man on a regular basis, intent on buying some artifacts the museum is about to put up for auction after a gala party two days from now.”

Kurt didn’t like it. “Everybody has their hobbies,” he said. “Even terrorists.”

She sat down. “Collecting ancient artifacts isn’t one of Hagen’s. He’s never shown an interest. Not until now.”

“Okay,” Kurt said. “But surely he wouldn’t be stupid enough to go back there.”

“That’s what I thought,” she replied. “Except that someone just put two hundred thousand euros into Hagen’s account on Malta. An account he opened the day after he met with the museum curator. Interpol confirmed the transaction. It was initiated several hours after the incident on Lampedusa.”

Kurt saw the logic. There was no denying it. This Dr. Hagen was alive, he’d escaped Lampedusa and moved money into the Maltese account after the fact. Whatever the reason, it sounded like the fugitive doctor was headed back there for another meeting with the head curator of the Maltese Oceanic Museum.

“So the question is,” she asked, closing the file and crossing one leg over the other, “do you care to take a look?”

“I’ll do more than look,” Kurt promised.

An expression of appreciation came his way. “I’ll meet you there once I’m certain all the patients are properly hospitalized and being cared for. I have to ask you not to take action until I arrive.”

Kurt stood, grinning. “Observe and report back,” he said. “I can handle that.”

They both knew he was lying. If he saw Hagen, Kurt would grab him, even if he had to take him right off the street.