“As far as it goes,” Kaye said. “I believe our genome is much more clever than we are. It’s taken us tens of thousands of years to get to the point where we have a hope of understanding how life works. The Earth’s species have been evolving, both competing and cooperating, for billions of years. They’ve learned how to survive under conditions we can barely imagine. Even the most conservative biologist knows different kinds of bacteria can cooperate and learn from each other—but many now understand that different species of metazoans, plants and animals like us, do much the same thing when they play their roles in any ecosystem. The Earth’s species have learned how to anticipate climate change and respond to it in advance, get a head start, and I believe, in our case, our genome is now responding to social change and the stress it causes.”
Jackson pretended to work these ideas through in his head before asking, “If you were a graduate advisor and one of your students were to propose doing a thesis on this possibility, would you encourage them?”
“No,” Kaye said bluntly.
“Why not?” Jackson pursued.
“It is not a widely defended point of view. Evolution has been a very closed-minded field in biology, and only the brave few challenge the paradigm of the Darwinian Modern Synthesis. No grad student should try it alone.”
“Charles Darwin was wrong, and you’re right?”
Kaye turned to Augustine. “Is Dr. Jackson conducting this inquisition all by himself?”
Augustine stepped forward. “This is an opportunity to answer your opponents, Dr. Lang.”
Kaye swung back and faced Jackson and the audience, eyes narrowed. “I do not challenge Charles Darwin, I have immense respect for him. Darwin would have recommended we not set our ideas in stone before we understood all the principles. I do not even reject many of the principles of the modern synthesis; quite clearly, whatever the genome devises has to pass the test of survival. Mutation is a source of unexpected and sometimes useful novelty. But there has to be more to explain what we see in nature. The modern synthesis was devised during a period when we were just beginning to learn the nature of DNA and establish the roots of modern genetics. Darwin would have been fascinated to know what we know today, about plasmids and exchange of free DNA, about error correction within the genome, about editing and transposition and hidden viruses, about markers and gene structure, about all manner of genetic phenomena, many of which do not fit at all neatly into the most rigid interpretations of the modern synthesis.”
“Does any reputable scientist support the proposition that the genome is a self-aware ‘mind,’ able to judge the environment and determine the course of its own evolution?”
Kaye took a deep breath. “It would take me several hours to correct and expand upon that proposition as you state it, but, loosely, the answer is yes. None of them are here, unfortunately.”
“Are their views noncontroversial?”
“Of course not,” Kaye said. “Nothing in this field is noncontroversial. And I try to avoid the word ‘mind,’ because it has personal and religious connotations that are not productive. I use the term network; a perceptive and adaptive network of cooperating and competing individuals.”
“Do you believe this mind, or network, could in some way be the equivalent of God?” Jackson stated this without smugness or contempt, to her surprise.
“No,” Kaye said. “Our own brains function as perceptive and adaptive networks, but I don’t believe we are gods.”
“But our own brains produce minds, do they not?”
“I believe the word applies, yes.”
Jackson held up his hands in puzzled query. “So we come full circle. Some sort of Mind—perhaps with a capital M—determines evolution?”
“Again, emphasis and semantics are important here,” Kaye said slowly, and then realized she should have simply dismissed the question with silence.
“Have you ever had the larger scope of your theories peer-reviewed and published in a major journal?”
“No,” Kaye said. “I have expressed some aspects in my published articles on HERV-DL3, which were peer-reviewed.”
“Many of your articles were rejected by other journals, were they not?”
“Yes,” Kaye said.
“By Cell, for example.”
“Yes.”
“Is Virology the most respected journal in the field?”
“It’s an important journal,” Kaye said. “It has published very important papers.”
Jackson let this go. “I haven’t had time to read all of the material in your handout. I apologize,” he continued, getting to his feet. “To the best of your knowledge, would any of the authors whose papers you have included in your handout agree with you completely on the subject of how evolution occurs?”
“Of course not,” Kaye said. “It’s a developing field.”
“It’s not just developing, it’s infantile, isn’t that right, Dr. Lang?”
“In its infancy, yes,” Kaye shot back. “Infantile would apply to those who deny compelling evidence.” She could not help looking at Dicken. He returned her look with unhappy resolve.
Augustine stepped forward again and held out his hand. “We could go on like this for days. I’m sure it would be an interesting conference. What we must do, however, is judge whether views such as those held by Dr. Lang could prove detrimental to the goals of the Taskforce. Our mission is to protect public health, not debate rarefied issues in science.”
“That isn’t exactly fair, Mark,” Marge Cross said, rising. “Kaye, does this seem like a kangaroo court to you?”
Kaye let out a small explosion of breath, half chuckle, half sigh, looked down, and nodded.
“I wish there was time,” Marge said. “I surely do. These views are fascinating, and I share many of them, dear, but we are hopelessly mired in business and politics, and we must go with what we can all support, and with what the public will understand. I do not see the support in this room, and I know we do not have time or the will to engage in a highly public debate. Unfortunately, we are stuck with science by committee, Dr. Augustine.”
Augustine was obviously not pleased by this characterization.
Kaye looked at the vice president. The vice president stared at the folio on his lap, which he had not opened, clearly embarrassed by being stuck in a race in which he had no horse he could hope to ride. He was waiting for the debate to end.
“I understand, Marge,” Kaye said. She could not keep her voice from quavering. “Thank you for making things so clear. I see no alternative but to resign from the Taskforce. My value to Americol is probably reduced by doing that, so I offer my resignation to you, as well.”
Augustine took Dicken aside in the hallway after the meeting. Dicken had tried to catch up with Kaye, but she was far down the hall toward the elevator.
“This didn’t turn out the way I would have liked,” Augustine told him. “I don’t want her out of the Taskforce. I just don’t want her going public with these ideas. Christ, Jackson may have done us a greater disservice—”
“I know Kaye Lang well enough,” Dicken said. “She’s gone for good, and yes, she’s pissed off, and I’m as responsible as Jackson.”
“Then what in hell can you do to put things right?” Augustine asked.
Dicken shrugged loose from his grip. “Nada, Mark. Zip. And don’t ask me to try.”
Shawbeck approached them, his face grim. “There’s another march on Washington planned for tonight. Women’s groups, Christians, blacks, Hispanics. They’re evacuating the Capitol and the White House.”
“Jesus H.,” Augustine said. “What are they trying to do, shut the country down?”
“The president’s agreed to a full defense. Regular Army as well as National Guard. I think the mayor is going to declare a state of emergency in the city. The VP is being flown to Los Angeles this evening. Gentlemen, we should get out of here, too.”
Dicken heard Kaye arguing with her bodyguard. He walked briskly down th
e hall to see what was happening, but they were in the elevator and the door had closed by the time he arrived.
Kaye stood in the ground floor lobby, hands on her hips, shouting at the top of her lungs. “I don’t want your protection! I don’t want any of this! I told you—”
“I don’t have any choice, ma’am,” Benson said, standing his ground like a small bull. “We are on full alert. You can’t go back to your apartment until we get more agents here, and that’s going to take at least an hour.”
The building security guards were locking the front doors and moving barricades into position. Kaye twirled, saw the barricades, the curious people beyond the glass doors. Steel barriers dropped slowly over the outside entrance.
“Can I make a phone call?”
“Not now, Ms. Lang,” Benson said. “I’d apologize all over if this were my fault, you know that.”
“Yes, like when you told Augustine who was in my apartment!”
“They asked the doorman, Ms. Lang, not me.”
“So what is it now, us versus them? I want to be outside with real people, not in here—”
“Not if they recognize you, you don’t,” Benson said.
“Karl, for God’s sake, I’ve resigned!”
The agent held up his hands and shook his head firmly: no matter.
“Then where am I going to stay?”
“We’re putting you with the other researchers in the executive lounge.”
“With Jackson?” Kaye bit her lip and stared at the ceiling, shaking with helpless laughter.
62
The State University of New York, Albany
Mitch stared out of the taxi window at the students marching along the tree-lined avenue. People poured out of homes and office buildings along the path of the march. This time, they carried no signs, no banners, but all held their left hands high, fingers stretched out, palms forward.
The driver, a Somali immigrant, lowered his head and peered through the window to his right. “What does that mean, raised hand?”
“I don’t know,” Mitch said.
The march had cut them off at an intersection. The university campus lay just a few blocks away, but Mitch doubted they would get that far today.
“It is scary,” the driver said, glancing over his shoulder at Mitch. “They want something to be done, yes?”
Mitch nodded. “I suppose.”
The driver shook his head. “I won’t cross that line. It’s a long line. Mister, I take you back to the station, where you’ll be safe.”
“No,” Mitch said. “Let me out here.”
He paid the driver and walked to the curb. The taxi swung around and drove away just before other cars could block it in.
Mitch’s jaw clenched. He could feel and smell the tension, the social electricity, in the long line of men and women, mostly young at first, but now more and more older, emerging from the buildings, all marching with left hands held high.
Not fists; hands. Mitch found that significant.
A police car parked just a few yards from him. Two patrol officers stood by their open doors, just watching.
Kaye had joked about wearing a mask, the day they had first made love. They had made love so few times. Mitch’s throat constricted. He wondered how many of the women in the march were pregnant, how many had had their tests for exposure to SHEVA return positive, and how that had affected their relationships.
“You know what’s going on?” an officer called to Mitch.
“No,” Mitch said.
“Think it’s going to get ugly?”
“I hope not,” Mitch said.
“We weren’t told a damned thing,” the officer grumbled, then climbed back into the patrol car. The car backed up but was hemmed in by other cars and could go no farther. Mitch thought it was wise they did not turn on their sirens.
This march was different from the march in San Diego. The people here were tired, traumatized, almost past hope. Mitch wished he could tell them all that their fear was unnecessary, that this was not a disaster, not a plague, but he was no longer sure what to believe. All belief and opinion faded in the presence of this massive tide of emotion, of fear.
He did not want the job at SUNY. He wanted to be with Kaye and protect her; he wanted to help her get through this, professionally and personally, and he wanted her to help him, as well.
It was no time to be alone. The whole world was in pain.
63
Baltimore
Kaye opened the door to the condominium and walked in slowly. She kicked the heavy door shut with two bangs of her foot, then leaned into it with her hand to get it latched. She dropped her purse and valise on the chair and stood for a moment as if to get her bearings. She had not slept in twenty-eight hours.
It was late morning outside.
The phone message light blinked at her. She retrieved three messages. The first was from Judith Kushner, asking her to call back. The second was from Mitch, leaving an Albany phone number. The third was from Mitch also. “I’ve managed to get back to Baltimore, but it wasn’t easy. They won’t let me in the building to use the key you gave me. I tried Americol but the switchboard says they’re not transferring outside calls, or you’re not available, or something. I’m worried sick. It’s hell out here, Kaye. I’ll call in a few hours and see if you’re home.”
Kaye wiped her eyes and swore under her breath. She could hardly see straight. She felt as if she were stuck in molasses and no one would let her clean her shoes.
Americol had been surrounded by four thousand protesters for nine hours, shutting off traffic all around the building. Police had moved in and succeeded in roiling the crowds, breaking them into smaller and less controlled groups, and riots had broken out. Fires had been started, cars overturned.
“Where do I call, Mitch?” she murmured, taking the phone out of its recharging cradle. She was paging through the phone book, looking for the number of the YMCA, when the phone rang in her hand.
She fumbled it to her ear. “Hello?”
“Dark Intruder again. How are you?”
“Mitch, oh God, I’m okay, but I’m so tired.”
“I’ve been walking all over downtown. They burned part of the convention center.”
“I know. Where are you?”
“A block away. I can see your building and the Pepto-Bismol Tower.”
Kaye laughed. “Bromo-Seltzer. Blue, not pink.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want you here anymore. I mean, I don’t want to be with you here anymore. Mitch, I’m not making sense. I need you so badly. Please come. I want to pack and get out. The bodyguard is still here, but he’s down in the lobby. I’ll tell him to let you in.”
“I didn’t even try to get the job at SUNY,” Mitch said.
“I quit Americol and the Taskforce. We’re equal now.”
“We’re both bums?”
“Shiftless and rootless and with no visible means of support. Other than a large bank account.”
“Where will we go?” Mitch asked.
Kaye reached into her purse and pulled out the two small boxes containing SHEVA test kits. She had taken them from the common stores area on the seventh floor at Americol. “How about Seattle? You have an apartment in Seattle, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Exquisite. I want you, Mitch. Let’s go live forever and ever in your bachelor apartment in Seattle.”
“You’re nuts. I’m coming right over.”
He hung up and she laughed in relief, then broke into sobs. She smoothed the phone against her cheek, realized how crazy that was, put it down. “I am really strung out,” she told herself, walking to the kitchen. She kicked off her shoes, pulled a Parrish print that had belonged to her mother from the wall, laid it on the dining room table, then all the other prints that belonged to her, her family, her past.
In the kitchen, she drew a glass of cold water from the refrigerator tap. “Screw luxury, screw security. Screw propriety.” She worked through a list o
f ten other items to screw, and at the end of the list came “goddamned stupid me.”
Then she remembered she had better let Benson know Mitch was coming.
64
Atlanta
Dicken walked toward his old office in the subbasement of Building 1 at 1600 Clifton Road. As he walked, he fingered his way through a vinyl packet of new material—special federal-grade security pass, fresh-printed instructions on new security procedures, talking points for arranged interviews later in the week.
He could not believe it had come to this. National Guard troops patrolled the perimeter and the grounds, and while there had not yet been any violent incidents at the CDC, phone threats arrived at the main switchboard as often as ten times a day.
He opened his office door and stood for a moment in the small room, savoring the cool and quiet. He wished he could be in Lagos or Tegucigalpa. He was much more at home working under rugged conditions in remote places; even the Republic of Georgia had been a bit too civilized, and therefore a bit too dangerous, for his tastes.
He much preferred viruses to out-of-control humans.
Dicken dropped the packet on his desk. For a moment, he could not remember why he was here. He had come to pick up something for Augustine. Then he recalled: the Northside Hospital autopsy reports on first-stage pregnancies. Augustine was working on a plan so top-secret Dicken knew nothing about it, but all the files pertaining to HERV and SHEVA in the building were being copied for his benefit.
He found the reports, then stood pensively, remembering the conversation with Jane Salter months ago, about the screaming of the monkeys in these old subbasement rooms.
He tapped his toe on the floor to the rhythm of an old and morbid child’s song and murmured, “The bugs go in and the bugs go out, the monkeys will scream and the apes will shout . . .”
No doubt about it anymore. Christopher Dicken was a team player, hoping just to survive with his wits and his emotions in a few well-ordered pieces.