“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said impatiently.
One of the biochemists followed up with less dramatic flair. “We’ve reached a contradiction,” he said. “Our hypothesis is that the North American dust mite makes itself valuable to humans by providing protection against Capellaviridae.”
“The dust mite spreads Capellaviridae,” the NIH Director interrupted.
“Exactly,” I said. “And the dust mite also protects against Capellaviridae turning virulent. That’s what makes this situation so biologically interesting.” We had developed more and more analogies to explain this “hostage” relationship. I offered up one of them: “A guy walks into a shopping mall with a bomb. He says, ‘I have a code that will prevent the bomb from detonating as long as I enter it every fifteen minutes. I will be perfectly happy to do that as long as you bring me food.’ Obviously if anything happens to the guy—”
“Really, it would be many, many guys with many bombs,” Giscard said.
“Yes, okay,” I agreed. “But the point is that everybody needs this guy—all of these guys—to stay alive. If anything happens to them, the whole place goes boom.”
“I already understand this,” the Director said.
“Of course you do,” Giscard said with what felt like excessive deference. Once again I was feeling the urge to harm him.
“Here’s the problem,” the biochemist explained. “That’s not how antibodies work—”
“They defuse the bomb,” Giscard interrupted. “The antibody team comes to the shopping place, they defuse the bomb, and then there is no need—”
“Enough with the bomb analogy,” the Director snapped. Various officials in the White House had been phoning her repeatedly for updates on the virus front. At one point she had angrily told the Chief of Staff, “Nothing since you called fifteen minutes ago.” I suspect the President was leaning on all the staff for some glimmer of hope that science might ward off the impending crisis.
I continued with our explanation to the Director: “Our whole theory revolves around the idea that the dust mite has somehow created a strategy to make itself valuable to humans—presumably by preventing Capellaviridae from turning virulent.”
“That’s what the data show,” Tie Guy said. “When the dust mite gets wiped out—”
“Yes, I know what the data show,” the Director said sharply. And then, more calmly, she summarized our dilemma more succinctly than we had ourselves: “The easiest way for the dust mite to protect against Capellaviridae turning virulent would be to introduce an antibody into the human host. But if that were the case, then there is no ongoing advantage to the humans from protecting the dust mite.”
“Exactly,” Giscard said, with what I felt to be a hint of surprise that the Director had so easily grasped the situation.
There was a brief silence as the Director reflected on what we had told her. “Well, I trust you’ll figure it out,” she said brusquely. With that, she turned and left the conference room. Giscard made a rude comment about female scientists and then retreated to his computer at the far end of the conference table. It never dawned on us that he was sharing our conversations with some of his French colleagues, in violation of our explicit orders. The pathetic irony is that he received credit for many of the ideas that emanated from our working group, not because he provided the intellectual spark for those breakthroughs (though that was occasionally the case) but because he disregarded our most important security protocols and wrote about them first.
75.
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON IN DELHI, JUST ABOUT THE TIME AIR Force One entered American airspace, the U.S. Ambassador walked discreetly out the back of the Embassy compound and hailed a taxi. He normally traveled in an armored Cadillac with a security detail, but that entourage was inimical to what he was trying to do: somehow persuade the Indian Prime Minister that he would be fortunate to have the United States accept his offer of lifesaving Dormigen. “That just doesn’t make any sense,” the Ambassador complained as the Strategist gave him his final marching orders. “We have no leverage here. The Indian PM is perfectly aware of what’s happening in the United States. People are going to die. And you expect me to somehow persuade him that we are doing him a favor by letting him give us Dormigen?”
“No,” the Strategist said patiently. “Forget about the Dormigen. That’s not relevant here.”
“Of course it’s not,” the Ambassador said facetiously.
“Really, it’s not. What’s important is the publicity around the donation. We have to make him want that recognition more than he thinks we want the Dormigen.”
“That’s a tall order,” the Ambassador said.
“He’s got an election coming up. There are corruption investigations coming at him from every direction. Now he’s got an opportunity to transform India’s place in the world, to join the elite club of the world’s most important democracies—”
“Yes, I like that language,” the Ambassador offered.
“Who was that douchebag from New Mexico when you were in the Senate?” the Strategist asked.
“Pardon?” the Ambassador asked.
“The senator from New Mexico. Remember, ‘Never get between a television camera and’—what was his name?”
“Luvardnik,” the Ambassador answered.
“Yes. Remember how easy that guy was to deal with? He had no ideological convictions whatsoever. As long as you could assure him some political benefit, he was with you.”
“I remember. I’m not sure the Indian PM is as bad as that,” the Ambassador said.
“No, but he certainly doesn’t care whether eighty-five-year-olds in the U.S. die because they can’t get Dormigen,” the Strategist pointed out. “This is all about him, so make him a hero in India.”
“Luvardnik really was an asshole, wasn’t he?” the Ambassador reflected.
“You know the drill,” the Strategist said.
“Twelve years in the Senate did teach me a few things.”
“Then go get us some Dormigen.” And then the strategist added, “And don’t pay the bill.”
“We’re meeting at a pizza parlor,” the Ambassador pointed out.
“I don’t care if it’s three dollars. You’re doing him a favor, so he pays the bill. That’s really important.”
“Okay, maybe I’ll order dessert,” the Ambassador said jokingly.
“Even better,” the Strategist answered, not joking at all.
The California Pizza Kitchen was deep in the New India Mall, past every manner of Western shop and up an escalator that passed over a garish fountain in which an elephant was shooting water from its trunk. The mall was busy with shoppers—an occasional tourist but mostly locals seeking out a clean, orderly place to shop for the same reason Americans do. The Ambassador had never been to the mall before, though the head of the embassy’s Economic Section often used it as an example of India’s growing middle class. The Ambassador made his way to the food court before recognizing that the restaurants were scattered elsewhere. By the time he reached the California Pizza Kitchen, he was several minutes late. The Ambassador recognized Sumer Patel, one of the Prime Minister’s trusted lieutenants (albeit with an ambiguous official portfolio), sitting at a table near the door looking somewhat impatient. The Strategist would be proud of him for keeping Patel waiting, the Ambassador thought, even if it was an accident. The Ambassador and Patel had met several times before; they reintroduced themselves and exchanged pleasantries. Eventually Patel broached the substance of the meeting: “I watched the President’s speech.”