“Resulting in epidemics… you study epidemics, right?” Julie asked.
“Very good. It’s true, Vienna suffered many epidemics over the centuries, the most famous of which was the Great Plague of Vienna in 1679. Death estimates from this massive epidemic range from 75,000 to over 100,000—literally half the population of the city was infected with bubonic plague. What is so fascinating about the 1679 scourge was that it was the result of two converging epidemics — one sweeping east from England and France, and one traveling west from the Ottoman Empire in Turkey. Taken as a whole, the bubonic plague was more than epidemic — it was pandemic — meaning it spread throughout most of the known civilizations of Europe and Asia.”
“Why is that of interest to your research?” Will asked.
“Because I am keenly interested in immunity factors associated with disease epidemics. Bubonic plague is the ideal research candidate because it was common practice for afflicted cities to institute quarantines. In some cases, townships quarantined themselves, in entirety, to prevent the spread of the disease to neighboring towns. The death tolls in quarantined sectors were horrific.”
“I don’t get it. Why do you care about the death tolls in quarantine areas?” asked Julie.
“Good question. The death toll is only useful in the sense that it gives me an indication of the virulence of the particular strain of plague bacterium. What I really care about are the plague survivors, or more specifically, the survivors’ progeny. For fifteen years I’ve been building a genealogical database tracing bloodlines of plague survivors all across Europe. Five hundred years worth of birth and death records, from over sixty towns, spread across twelve countries.”
“What do you hope to find?”
“The descendants of plague survivors, of course,” Johansen quipped. “Not just any descendants. No, I’m looking for descendants who might carry in their DNA specific immunity factors or mutations that allowed their ancestors to survive the plague. Mutations that the living descendants would still carry to this day.”
“What do you do when you find descendants?” Will asked.
“We take DNA and blood samples from them… with their permission of course. Then we analyze the sample for immunity factors, and we enter the individual’s DNA profile into my genealogical database.”
“Like a family tree?”
“Yes, absolutely. Except this is a family tree for DNA. I am proud to say that our lab maintains the world’s largest DNA-derived genealogical database focused on epidemiology. We have over half a million entries and counting. Would you like to become a member?”
“When you were talking about adding my results to your research, this is what you were referring to?” Will asked.
“Yes. Except, based on the images you’ve shown me, I think we’ll be doing much more than just plugging your genome into the database. Are you ready to get started?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Very good. Let’s start with you telling me about your family history and anything you know about your condition.”
“I am of European descent. English, I think. I am thirty-four years old and an only child. Both my parents have passed away, so I am the only surviving male heir on my father’s side of the family. For as long as I can remember, I have never been sick — that is until I started receiving the injections.”
“Explain what you mean when you say you’ve ‘never been sick’?”
“Just that. From the time I was a kid, I don’t remember being sick. My mother used to joke that I repelled germs. My father said that I had my grandpa’s famous Foster constitution.”
“Foster? Is that your surname?”
“Yes. Why?”
“That name is familiar to me.”
“Did you know my grandfather?”
“No, I don’t think so. I need to check my notes. I have interviewed hundreds of people over the years and made thousands of data entries. You’re both young; your minds are still quick. When you get to be my age, you’ll find it all begins to blur together. That’s why I keep detailed handwritten notes. Then I make the grad students type them into the computer,” Johansen said with a mischievous chuckle.
Julie laughed. “Grad students love grunt work. Don’t let their bellyaching fool you.” The professor picked up his office phone and rang his assistant. “Can you please pull any files we have on the surname ‘Foster’ from the United Kingdom and bring them to my office please?” He then turned his attention back to Will. “While we wait to see what she finds, let’s talk some more about your experience never getting ill.”
“When I was a kid, I never got sick. The other kids caught chicken pox, strep throat, the flu, but not me.”
“Just so I understand, you are saying you have never been ill in your entire life?”
“Not that I can remember, no. Not until they put me in quarantine and started the injections.”
“I don’t understand. Who put you in quarantine? What injections?”
“It’s a long story. You might want to grab a cup of coffee.”
Johansen leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “I have nothing but time. Please, tell me everything.”
Chapter Thirty
“This is it, the Ponte woman’s apartment,” Raimond Zurn said to Udo.
“Do you want me to kick the door in, brother?” Udo asked, eyes glimmering.
“Battering rams are for barbarians. I am not a barbarian. I’m an artist. Artists are refined, skilled with instruments of their trade,” Raimond quipped, retrieving a lock picking kit from his bag with gloved hands. Thirty seconds later the door was unlocked. “Quiet, elegant, refined.”
Udo snorted with feigned irritation. The truth was that over the years he had come to enjoy his brother’s theatrics. Raimond made him laugh. Udo was not a clever man, but being around Raimond made him feel clever by proximity. Besides, Udo knew from experience that the time for barbarism would come soon enough; then he would have his fun.
Raimond pushed the door open to Julie’s apartment and stepped across threshold. He stood erect and perfectly still, like a wolf surveying a stretch of tundra just before a caribou hunt. The clamorous sound of a television commercial emanated from the kitchen. Raimond turned to Udo, motioning him to enter the apartment. Udo followed and then quietly shut and locked the apartment door. Raimond nodded approvingly at his brother, and then turned toward the sound. With a quick, deliberate stride he moved toward the kitchen, withdrawing a white handkerchief laced with chloroform from his pocket en route.
A tall slender woman with dark hair stood at the sink counter, her back turned, humming a tune and slicing mushrooms on a cutting board.
Raimond wrapped his left arm around her torso, pinning her arms against her sides. With his right hand, he held the handkerchief over her mouth and nose. She gasped, sucking in air through the chemical-laden cloth. Her body tensed and then fell limp in his arms. The paring knife hit to the floor with a thud. His strike was so efficient she never uttered a sound.
The world was blurry and bright. Time seemed to be passing in slow motion for Isabella as she struggled to regain consciousness. Her eyelids were heavy, and she very much wanted to go back to sleep, but a voice deep in her mind told her she needed to wake up. She was in danger. From what, or from whom, she could not recall, but the last thing she remembered was being deathly afraid.
“She’s waking up,” Udo announced. He walked over to Raimond who had fallen asleep in a chair and gave him a shake.
Adrenaline coursed through Isabella’s arteries counteracting the waning effects of the anesthesia. She tried to move her legs; she could not. She struggled to free her arms; the effort was futile. She was securely bound to a chair by duct tape. Her pulse quickened, and she was surprised to hear herself panting as she writhed in the chair.