The Rationing

Epilogue

THE FOLLOWING EVENING THE PRESIDENT HOSTED A DINNER at the White House for the Indian Prime Minister. It was not an official state dinner. The exact protocol of that was lost on me, other than it meant I could wear a suit rather than having to rent a tuxedo. The guest list included White House officials, the Washington diplomatic corps, a handful of CEOs, prominent members of the Indian-American community, and an array of celebrities, including some Indian film stars. I took Ellen as my guest—I figured I owed her that much—though I spent much of the evening talking to Jenna. We would start dating several weeks later. Giscard was there, of course; he spent most of his time hitting on an Indian film star. I could not say that I had come to like him, but I had grown to appreciate his force of personality. He was wearing a burgundy suit with a matching scarf—always the scarf. Who else could pull that off?

The Chief of Staff was there with her entire family: her husband and two daughters. The daughters looked like they would rather be anywhere else. At one point I watched the Chief of Staff tell the older one to put her phone away, which apparently prompted some snippy response, because the two of them argued briefly before the daughter went storming off, high heels wobbling slightly, as only a teenager (in the wrong) can manage. I found the whole scene oddly reassuring, even sweet. It made me feel like life was back to normal.

There were elaborate toasts before dinner. By then the Indian Dormigen had been distributed across the country with relatively few hiccups. The American supply would be back online in hours. The crisis was unequivocally over. “This is the beginning of a new chapter in American-Indian relations,” the President declared in his toast. I had been around him enough to know when he was being sincere and when he was going through the motions. This felt genuine to me, not least because the world is a dangerous place and I had been persuaded that the world’s most powerful democracy and the world’s most populous democracy ought to be close allies.

The Strategist was there, basking in the success of the fake polling that had set the India strategy in motion. “I got it wrong,” he said with false modesty (to the small group who knew about this activity). In fact, the Prime Minister’s heroic flight to the U.S. had been even more popular than the Strategist’s fictional polling had suggested: 91 percent of Indians supported the Dormigen donation to the U.S.; 83 percent felt relations between the two countries should be closer. I said hello to the Strategist and exchanged pleasantries. “What do you think of my date?” he asked, nodding toward a large-breasted woman in a very short dress who had to be at least twenty years younger than he was. “She’s a professional,” he said with a wink. I had no idea what to say. I think he was telling the truth.

The menu was vegetarian out of respect for the Indian vegetarians among the guests. The centerpieces were made of lotuses, the national flower of India. (I did not notice this detail; someone pointed it out to me.) I was amazed by what had been pulled together in thirty-six hours. The President had nothing to do with the planning, obviously. There was an entire White House office for this kind of thing: flowers, food, seating arrangements, protocol. The President did make one specific request for the evening: the Speaker of the House and the Chinese Ambassador were seated next to one another. I could not help but look at them as they sat there glumly all night.

We would eventually unravel the mysteries of Capellaviridae—and of lurking viruses more generally. It would take more than a year for the pieces to fall into place, with many significant discoveries along the way. To the surprise of no one, Giscard was the lead author on the article that wove the intellectual strands into a coherent theory, though I think he deserved the credit for this one. In the end, we confirmed most of what we had hypothesized in the early days. Over the course of many millennia, the North American dust mite had turned Capellaviridae into an instrument for its own survival. The dust mite bite transmits the indolent form of Capellaviridae, which is essentially a flu virus with antibodies pre-attached. Eventually, as the indolent virus replicates, the proteins that render the virus harmless begin to detach, creating the more virulent form of the pathogen. Unless… more dust mite bites. Each bite transmitted more Capellaviridae—benign—as well as an enzyme that destroyed any of the viruses that had turned virulent. In other words, the best cure for a North American dust mite bite was more bites. That is how the dust mite made itself invaluable to humans.

“Fantastic!” Professor Huke exclaimed as I walked him through what we had learned. He had invited me to campus for a lunch with students. From an evolutionary standpoint, what we had discovered was fantastic. And it was consistent with the theory I first formulated while sitting at my dining room table: The North American dust mite effectively holds its human hosts hostages; as long as I’m fine, you’re fine. When humans tried to eradicate the dust mite, or when they moved away to an area without them (which from a biological perspective was the same thing), Capellaviridae turned dangerous.

Our discoveries paved the way for other important work. The enzyme the dust mite uses to eliminate the virulent form of Capellaviridae has enormous medical value. It is essentially a targeted assassin, which may transform some kinds of cancer treatment. Meanwhile, our “wiki science” has become a template for how cutting-edge research ought to be shared. We are now using more sophisticated platforms than Google Docs, and there is recognition that peer review is still an essential tool for validating work, but our Capellaviridae “war room” demonstrated the power of openness and collaboration. Last year the National Academy of Sciences promulgated a set of standards for sharing scientific work in parallel with the peer review process.

Some months after the dramatic Air India One flight, those of us who worked on the scientific effort during the Outbreak were invited to a small White House reception with the President. The event was postponed twice—once during the intervention in El Salvador and again when the First Lady had her cancer surgery. Eventually we gathered at the White House. The NIH team was there, along with the other principals who had been involved in the response: the Acting HHS Secretary (now retired), the Secretary of State, and so on. The President and First Lady welcomed each member of the team as we entered the East Room; the NIH Director stood at the President’s side, introducing each of us as we reached the front of the receiving line. “You remember our expert on lurking viruses,” the NIH Director said to the President as I stood in front of him, offering my hand.

“Of course I do,” the President said, looking down subtly at my name tag. “Thank you for your service.”

I moved along to the First Lady. “So nice to meet you,” she said. “The nation owes you a profound debt.” Jenna was right behind me. I waited for her as the First Lady said, “Thank you for your important work.”

Jenna was chuckling when she joined me. “Hah,” she said, “the President forgot your name.”

“No,” I replied with a smile. “He never knew it in the first place.”