BURGERFANTASTIC DEPOT, NEWARK – SUNDAY 15 DECEMBER – 6 A.M.
‘Perhaps ten more days, my friend. I promise you, maximum ten more days.’ Ibrahim Fallah spoke calmly, from his usual chair in Takar el Sayden’s office. ‘And then you will never see me again.’
Takar el Sayden was slumped in his chair and he didn’t show any reaction to his visitor’s words.
He is close to breaking point, thought Fallah. He has definitely lost weight and he looks exhausted. I must be careful with him.
‘There is more powder in my case, Takar. It is vital that you keep up the routine – two bags in the sauce every night.’
‘Don’t you know what’s going on in this city?’ snarled Takar el Sayden. ‘There are people dying from food poisoning. If this damn powder is behind this . . .’
‘Do not threaten me, Takar,’ said Fallah firmly. ‘I assure you that our experiment has nothing to do with events in the city. How could it? We have been conducting our experiment for eighteen months now. Without any effects. And you have seen me take samples myself. You have my word. Just ten more days.’
Takar el Sayden was far from convinced. His adversary shoved his customary envelope full of photographs of Takar’s family across the desk.
‘Such cute little girls, Takar. I would hate to have to harm them. Stay calm. Courtesy of BurgerFantastic, you are now an even richer man. Ten more days and you and your family can enjoy your money in peace.’
‘Bastard,’ spat out Takar el Sayden.
*
CENTER FOR DISEASE CONTROL AND PREVENTION – 7.45 A.M.
Dr Kim Scholler was sitting, ashen faced, at the head of the conference room table, as the rest of the Task Force came into the room. She had been in her office since six, reviewing reports from the hospitals and fielding panicked calls from hospital administrators. Her words hung in the air for what seemed an age.
‘It’s a meltdown.’
No one dared to break the silence. Eventually the bowtied Professor Samuel Ghent, who had taken up his usual seat to her left, broke in quietly.
‘Perhaps, Dr Scholler, you would let us have the numbers?’
Kim Scholler looked down at a pile of printouts in front of her and read from some notes she had made. ‘I regret to say that we now have over ten thousand deaths reported. And rising.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ!’ blurted out Chuck Taylor from Pollution Control. There was a shocked silence in the room. Jack Barrett from the Municipal Water Department had his head in his hands. Again, Professor Ghent tried to move things along.
‘Dr Steelman,’ he said, addressing the CDCP’s Doctor of Foodborne and Diarrhoeal Diseases. ‘What’s happening with the treatment?’
‘Professor, my team is in touch with all of the hospitals. They’re all saying they can’t take any more admissions. They’ve got car parks full of people trying to get admitted.’
‘So, what are they doing?’ asked Detective Cabrini.
‘For now, they’re just sending them home,’ replied Steelman. ‘The big problem is that the first influx of patients is not responding to antibiotic treatment – if anything, they seem to be getting worse. We’re seeing patients becoming very toxic, very quickly. A lot of them are developing septicaemia and we’re getting deaths from peritonitis, meningitis and kidney failure.’
‘So, what do we do?’ asked Professor Ghent.
‘We just keep throwing the antibiotics at it and hope that this starts to turn around,’ said Steelman. ‘Luckily, we’ve secured a good supply line of cephalosporin.’
Dr Scholler broke in, ‘Professor, any views?’
The professor sat back in his chair and said calmly, ‘Well, I’m not given to dramatics, but the doctor’s use of the word “meltdown” is not unreasonable. We’ve DNA fingerprinted this damn bug and there’s no doubt that all the patients have caught the same thing. We’ll have more information on it over the next thirty-six hours. Certainly, the question of antibiotic resistance might arise, but it’s too early to say.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Detective John Wyse.
‘The bacteria are learning how to fight off the antibiotics,’ said the professor. ‘It’s potentially a massive problem – we’ll have to keep an eye on it.’
Dr Scholler took control again.
‘Worst-case scenario, this is going to multiply, because we still haven’t identified the damn source. I’ve spent most of the morning on the phone to Homeland Security in Washington. They’re about to push the button on the National Response Plan. There’s a crisis meeting there in one hour. They want me, Professor Ghent and Dr Steelman there ASAP. Detectives,’ she addressed Wyse and Cabrini, ‘we need a police escort and a helicopter to Washington.’
‘On it,’ said Cabrini, heading out of the room, cell phone in hand.
‘The rest of you, for now,’ she continued, ‘keep looking for the source. And keep calm. The Mayor’s office is looking for a statement. Last thing we want is complete panic.’
*
Detectives Wyse and Cabrini blinked and turned their backs to the cloud of dust kicked up by the police department helicopter. The pilot gently raised the collective with his left hand, then eased the cyclic forward with his right, and the powerful machine carrying Dr Scholler, Dr Steelman and Professor Ghent clawed its way out over the Hudson River, from the helipad on 84th Street. The police escort for the six-block journey from the Center for Disease Control had proved essential, as the gridlock around the city’s hospitals had snarled traffic across the entire island. The two detectives turned again to watch the helicopter bank to the southwest towards Washington. A three-hour drive would be cut to forty-five minutes.
‘Hope those guys come back with some answers,’ said Cabrini, glumly.
‘I’ve got a real bad feeling about this, Mike,’ replied John Wyse. ‘Like this is completely new territory.’
‘Hope you’re wrong, pal. C’mon, let’s get back to the station,’ said Cabrini, as they turned towards the car.
‘All right, but I wanna stop off for a coupla minutes and say hello to Anna.’
‘Ain’t you seeing enough of her, man, now you’re living together?’
‘Well, yeah,’ said Wyse, as he sat back into the passenger seat, ‘but we’ve both been workin’ so hard, last few days, we only seem to cross paths for an hour or so. I just wanna make sure she’s okay.’
‘All right, man,’ said Cabrini, switching on the siren. ‘Where is it? Times Square?’
‘Yeah, Broadway and 43rd.’
They skirted around Ground Zero, in the shadow of the Freedom Tower, and headed north on Broadway.
‘You’ve got it bad for this girl, John – I can tell,’ said Cabrini with a grin.
‘You betcha, Mike – this is the one.’
*
The elevator pinged as Detective John Wyse reached the eighteenth floor of the Paramount Building, overlooking Times Square. Cabrini had parked the car on yellow lines and had gone for a coffee in the Starbucks across the street.
‘Hi, Sonya,’ said Wyse as the Dynamic Communications receptionist looked up.
‘Hi, John,’ she replied, flashing him a smile. ‘Not here to arrest anyone I hope?’
‘Not today.’
‘Take a seat, John, I’ll let Anna know you’re here.’
Wyse sat into a white leather chair and casually picked up a copy of Time, which was on top of a small pile of magazines on the coffee table. The front cover caught his eye. There was a full cover picture of Tsan Yohoto, Anna’s client, with the heading:
Can This Man Save Africa?
Huh. Maybe we could do with him here, right now, to save New York. He flicked to page five to read the story.
Tsan Yohoto, Japanese businessman and philanthropist, has been nominated for a Nobel Prize for his humanitarian assistance in Africa. The soon-to-retire giant of the pharmaceutical world inspired his corporation, Yamoura Pharmaceuticals, to spend millions of dollars in providing free cephalosporin antibiotics to disease-ridden nations in Africa.
Yep, there’s that cephalosporin again.
‘Hey, John.’ Anna’s voice interrupted his thoughts. She quickly crossed the room to him. She was wearing a pair of perfectly fitting blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. As always, she looked gorgeous.
‘Hi, honey,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘Hey, you see your client’s on the cover of Time?’
‘Yeah, isn’t he fantastic? Must be great to be able to make a real difference in the world. Come on in,’ she said. ‘I was just having a sandwich at my desk.’ She led him in through the open-plan office.
‘Hey, you can sit there,’ said Anna, indicating Cindy Sheperd’s empty chair at the next desk. ‘Cindy’s out sick.’
‘Oh?’ said Wyse, sitting down. ‘Has she been sick long?’
‘Few days – and, like, six of the other girls. They’ve all got this food poisoning thing. We heard that Cindy had to go to hospital. I’m worried sick about her. It’s weird without her – the place is like a morgue.’ Then, nodding her head at her own heaped desk, ‘and I’ve been flat out in here. So, what’s up, babe?’
‘Just worrying about you, honey.’ Wyse looked around him, lowered his voice and said, ‘Keep it to yourself for the moment, baby, but this food poisoning thing is gettin’ outta control.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. All the hospitals are full. They’re gonna have to start moving people outta state.’
‘Wow, that’s heavy.’
‘Yeah, just be real careful what you eat.’
‘That’s one advantage of being a vegetarian,’ said Anna, smiling. ‘Want some?’ And she offered him half a salad sandwich.
‘Yeah, thanks,’ he said, reaching across. ‘Haven’t eaten since real early.’
‘You still on for the big dinner tonight?’ asked Anna through a mouthful of salad.
‘Tonight, yeah . . .’ Christ, he’d forgotten all about that.
‘Don’t tell me you’d forgotten, John. It’s the advertising awards at the Waldorf!’
‘Yeah, I know. Looking forward to it.’
‘Wait till you see my new dress. Katie told me and Arlene to go and spend what we liked. She says we’ve gotta look our best for the winner’s podium. She reckons we’re gonna sweep the boards.’
Anna took another bite of her sandwich and nodded to the right. ‘Take a look out the window.’
John stood up and walked the ten paces or so to the window overlooking Times Square. Directly opposite him and dominating the Square were two enormous electronic screens – side by side on the Bank of America building. The blue and white screen read:
SuperVerve – putting the verve back into your life
The red and yellow flashing sign beside it read:
BurgerFantastic – Home cooking without the hassle.
99 cent offer for one more week
‘Hey – I see what you mean! That’s your Japanese guys, isn’t it? And your burger chain?’
‘Yessir, and only the two biggest marketing campaigns in the history of the city, that’s what,’ said Anna, wiping salad cream off her upper lip. ‘Completely blown everyone outta the water and both campaigns using my celebs,’ she said, proudly. She lowered her voice and pointed left. ‘Katie and Vic are in the boardroom, practising their acceptance speech.’
‘And does all the advertising work?’ asked Wyse.
‘Does it work? Take a look to the right.’
John Wyse went back to the window and looked further down into Times Square. On the opposite side of the street was the ubiquitous bright red and yellow BurgerFantastic sign. Below it was a line of about thirty people waiting to get into the restaurant.
‘Suppose it’s not too hard when you’re giving them away for ninety-nine cents,’ he said. ‘How does that make sense in terms of a profit?’
‘All about market share I suppose,’ said Anna, shrugging and chucking her napkin in the wastepaper basket.
‘And why these two huge marketing campaigns at the same time?’ asked Wyse. ‘Is there some connection between BurgerFantastic and SuperVerve?’
‘No.’ Anna shook her head. ‘Not that I ever heard. It’s just coincidence I guess.’
‘So, the SuperVerve campaign has worked, too?’ he asked, sitting down again at Cindy’s desk.
‘Oh, you betcha. Half the city’s taking them. There, see for yourself,’ she said, pointing at a packet of SuperVerve on Cindy’s desk. John Wyse picked up the familiar blue and white box with the smiling face of a slim young woman on the front.
‘SuperVerve – Putting the verve back into your life,’ he said, reading out some of the words printed on the packet. He turned it around in his hands. There was the smiling girl again. He read out the small print:
‘Manufactured by Yamoura Pharmaceutical Corporation. Contains forty-two 500 mg tablets of cephalosporin.’
More of that antibiotic. It’s everywhere. Isn’t it bad to be taking too many antibiotics? Maybe that’s why Cindy’s sick?
The door into the main office suddenly burst open with a bang and Sonya the receptionist ran in. There were tears streaming down her face.
‘Anna, Anna!’ she called out.
‘Jesus, Sonya, what is it?’ asked Anna.
‘It’s Cindy!’ Sonya cried out. ‘She’s dead.’