The Superbug Sequence

alone.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

Terrence Landau did not see the nail before he stepped on it.

He had been standing shoeless in the cool, soothing water of Lake Victoria, allowing his eyes to drink in the burst of sunrise that was colored by a symphony of egrets’ throaty honks as they flapped their wings and danced over tranquil undulations searching for tilapia, when he was disturbed by a man staggering onto the beach about thirty yards away. At first he thought the man was drunk, but then he heard the staccato rumble of gunfire pierce the morning solitude as the man collapsed onto the sand, which seemed to turn maroon around his body. Landau became a stone for a few fleeting seconds before he sprinted away and inadvertently found the nail with his left foot.

Fuck, he said, as the nail punctured the nerve endings of his foot and a bolt of lightning coursed its way to his brain. The stab of pain shook him almost as much as the bullets had frightened him moments before, slowing his gallop back toward the relative safety of his Land Rover. His mind in temporary disarray, he plowed into a puddle of cocoa-colored water just before he reached the vehicle. But once beside the truck, he exhaled a long sigh of relief, although his safety was hardly assured. Then he leaned against the silver metal fender, removed the inch-long rusted nail, and glared at the orange-brown steel before he flung it away. Its putrid odor lingered on his fingers even after he rubbed them on his pants. A long deep breath later he remembered why he had snuck out of the hotel hours before dawn.

The cool, soothing waters of Lake Victoria.

In a rare moment of respite from his workaholic ways, Landau had made the long drive out to the empty Kampala–Entebbe road to catch the sunrise over the lake, shedding his shoes and the stress that always boiled within him before he broke a big story. He stepped ankle-deep into the wavelets lapping the shoreline, breathed in the sour, salty aroma, and watched the silhouettes of fishermen in boats no larger than rowboats cast nets on the rippled surface. He could almost forget the pressure that his editor had placed on him days before as the basso grunts of hippos displaying their enormous toothy grins to their equally toothy neighbors reminded him that there were animals on this earth with even bigger mouths than his editor. Paradise, he thought. Such beauty. How wonderful to be in Uganda again.

As a health and science reporter for The New York Times, he had circled the globe more than a few times, but had never made it to the tiny string of eighty-four blotches on his map called the Ssese Islands, where he would attend a pharmaceutical conference later that day on the largest island in the chain, Bugala. All the giants of Big Pharma would be there, including Castleton Bering, the fiftyish CEO of BeringPharmaceuticals, whose perfect smile and jovial affect belied his reputation for irascibility. Temper or no, Bering was one of the keenest minds of the pharmaceutical industry, and his strong will and quick wit had made him not only a very rich man but a formidable competitor. And it was Bering who had said nothing to that point to contradict the rumor unsettling the pharmaceutical world that his company, BeringPharmaceuticals, was on the verge of developing a breakthrough class of new antibiotics that could stand up to the challenge of the Trojan-like MDROs (Multidrug-Resistant Organisms).

Landau had intended to get an exclusive story on BeringPharmaceuticals’ new antibiotic products. Until he pierced his foot on that nail.

There’s a goddamned invisible war going on, said Landau’s editor, as he raked his hand over a sweat-covered dome of a head. "Everybody’s getting out of the antibiotics game and the bugs are getting stronger, like a microbiotic Terminator sequel, and pretty soon you cut yourself shaving and you lose half your face to some flesh-eating bacterial shit."

I’ll get the story.

Make sure you get him on the record.

Landau was in the habit of sounding confident when he was least sure of himself, a form of posturing that had served him well over the years coming up through the hazing that greets a cub reporter for The Times.

Sure thing, Boss.

But this was the first time Landau had been shot at, and he had not waited to see the shooter. As he pressed the accelerator with his throbbing foot, he could still hear the sounds of the automatic gunfire whipping past his head, and a surge of adrenaline pumped through him as he thought, Holy shit! I’ve been shot at! And then he saw the chubby, dark-skinned victim before his eyes again, jerking like a marionette before he fell to the beach, staining the sand beneath him burgundy.

Was it the culmination of some guerrilla warfare plot? A personal feud? Landau didn’t know what he had seen. All that mattered was that he had encountered hell on the edge of paradise and he was glad to escape unscathed. Or so he thought.

CHAPTER TWO

It was 8:00 in the morning and Paula Fitzgerald was already having a bad-hair day.

The light on the side of her Kryptonic microcomputer was flashing yellow. She powered up, clicked on Messages, and saw several text messages from the Deputy Assistant Director (DAD). The last message read: Be in my office at 9:30. Pack a bag for four nights.

Shit, she thought to herself.

She had been in Fremont, Nebraska, the week before, traversing wide swaths of towns and small farms in a vain attempt to find evidence of E. coli poisoning, which local health officials feared might escalate into a regional epidemic. After days of searching for microscopic clues and patterns of infectious E. coli outbreaks, she was sure this was a false alarm. A day later, she was back in Washington, D.C. And now, here she was, face to face with another medical conundrum.

Times like this, she was glad she had resisted the urge to buy a dog.

She had been promoted to Supervisory Special Agent in the last six months and was now one of the Bureau’s top two or three bioterrorism and infectious disease experts. She quickly sequenced through the day’s checklist as she sipped her strong black morning coffee, ready to go into the bedroom to pack for the week.

Before she packed, she stepped into the bathroom and preened before the lighted mirror. My God, she thought, look at me. The perpetual frizziness of her long blonde hair seemed even more impetuous than usual. Its all-over-the-placeness forced her to wrap her hair in a tight circular bun, then pin it, hoping that in an hour she and her hair might look like the demure FBI professional she had become.

But when she splashed soap over her olive skin, just as her mother had done so many mornings when she was a child, Fitzgerald felt she was re-enacting her mother’s morning ritual. Soaping her skin. Rubbing it into her pores. Then the scrupulous care she took rinsing her face and dabbing at it with a soft towel. Glancing at herself in the mirror once more, she was glad she had inherited her mother’s high cheekbones, small nose, and large hazel eyes.

You have your mother’s simple elegance, friends who knew them both said.

Then a computer alarm rang and she hurried out of the bathroom. She had an hour to find her way to the Deputy Assistant Director’s office, and she did not want to be late.

When she walked into the DAD’s office, he was on the telephone, uh-huhing and mmm-hmmming, before he reached across his desk, grabbed a few papers, and handed her a train ticket with her itinerary on a sheet of paper. She leafed through the documents and saw she was on an 11:30 train to Boston. The DAD pointed to a chair as he spoke and she sat down, wondering what the assignment was.

When he clicked off the line, he said, Two things. First I want you to go with local agents to serve a Section 666 search warrant on Asthmus Scientific in Cambridge, Massachusetts, for misuse of government funds. We suspect there’s been a substantial misuse of federal funds diverted for personal use rather than their original research and development purpose.

So we’re doing a Title 18 search?

If there are any hidden documents, you’ll know where to look.

Thank you, sir.

And after you finish at Asthmus, head over to Aurora Pharmaceuticals. Colonel Ehrlich of USAMRIID is the lead investigator on the cyber-crime there right now. I want you to work closely with him on this one.

Aurora is Budd Schuller’s firm, right?

You know him?

He was one of my teachers at MIT. He can be difficult.

What about Ehrlich?

I know him by reputation.

Work with him on this one. Here, the Assistant Director said, and handed her an FBI dossier.

Good luck. Aurora’ll be a tough one.

But I’d like to know more about—

Let me know if the Boston office should be involved.

Anything else?

Ehrlich’s handling the computer side of Aurora. If it goes anywhere else, it’s your baby.

An hour later, Fitzgerald and her baby grabbed a salad from one of those salad places in Union Station. She also bought a toasted bagel with cream cheese and a black coffee to smooth the long trip.

Nine hours later, she was darting in and out of tight spaces to avoid oncoming commuters rushing to catch their train in Boston’s South Station. While trying to find a cab, she veered over to a newsstand and picked up a copy of The Boston Globe. She creased the pages as she folded them back to find the Science section, where she saw a story that addressed the recent computer difficulties at Aurora Pharmaceuticals. Of course, she had already read the FBI report on the train, so she understood the computer problems in greater specificity. She also understood that the enigma went much deeper than the public could grasp.

Before she went outside and found a cab, she paused on the steps leading out to Atlantic Avenue. Thought about Budd Schuller. About Ehrlich. She knew Asthmus would wrap in a few days, but Aurora, Aurora, something about that was wrong, though she had no idea why she felt that way.

Minutes later, she told the cab driver, Cambridge. Rogers and Sixth Street, please, as she noticed her reflection in the glass.

CHAPTER THREE

Castleton Bering lit a cigar in the corner of the Regency Room of the Royal Supreme Inn on Bugala Island and stood beside the CEO of an investment firm, who reached over for two glasses of Dom Pérignon and handed one to Bering. Bering raised his flute into the air and toasted, Here’s to billions more from the Feds. Very soon.

Caz, sweetheart, aren’t you trying to beat Aurora to market? the CEO asked.

What makes you think we’re interested in those hacks? Bering said, startled, and then thought for a moment, fingered his chin, sipped the champagne, and offered, We got out of antibiotics six years ago. He studied his audience, gauging the effect of his words, and then smirked, as if to say, I said it, but I didn’t mean it. And just as he was satisfied that no one knew what he meant, a tall, brawny man with a thick mane of black hair strutted over to them.

Okay, forget I said anything, the venture capitalist said.

No. Scuttlebutt has it that you made an offer for Halcyon, another venture capitalist said. It’s true, isn’t it?

Soon I’ll be wealthier than 10⁵⁰, Bering boasted, alluding to his more than $50 billion of personal wealth, more than the gross national product of Uganda.

Go ahead, tell them, Caz, the man with the shock of thick black hair said.

I didn’t know you’d be here, Bering said to Christian Caritas, CEO of Halcyon.

I don’t believe you, Caz. You know about our new antibacterial, Caritas said, pushing his mane back into place.

I guess I forgot, Bering said, pulling on his cigar and blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. I have more pressing matters on my mind. Like, when President Trevor will allocate the billions necessary for Pharma R&D.

You’ll have to convince him why he should change policy, Caritas said.

So you didn’t make an offer for Halcyon? the VC said.

Don’t believe his bullshit. Bering’s trying to buy us, Caritas said, rubbing his thumb and the pads of his other fingers together so they made a swishing sound, as he waited for Bering’s response. He knows what we’re doing. He knows about our endolysin antibacterial. He’s playing ignorant. Why, Caz?

Bering grimaced at the words Caritas just said, inwardly fuming as he studied the thirtyish man; his bronzed skin, his manicured mustache and goatee, and his expensive tailored suit. He wanted to tell him to shut the hell up, but to make a point about it, to argue with him, would be to implicitly agree that the assertion carried weight.

What is an endolysin antibacterial? the VC asked.

An enzyme produced by a bacteriophage, Caritas said, which is a microbe that occurs naturally in the human body whose purpose is to cleave the cell wall of a bacterium.

So it’s like an antibiotic?

It disables bacteria on the outside of their cell wall, whereas antibiotics work on the inside of the bacterial cell. There’s a difference.

What’s its monetization potential? the VC asked, before he turned to Bering and said, Now I can see why you’re interested in Halcyon. You don’t have anything like that in your product portfolio.

Billions of dollars, Caritas barked, rubbing his fingers together again.

Before Bering could say a word, the American Ambassador to Uganda walked over and asked, Have you guys solved the problems of the world? Or just those of the U.S.? Is there enough capital to go around to pay for your projected cash needs?

They all laughed. Except Caritas.

Another pharmaceutical CEO added, So President Trevor won’t fund new R&D. Too risky and too expensive he likes to say.

What the fuck does he know about the pharmaceutical business? asked Cullen Sargent, President and CEO of Sensilis Fiducia, LLC., a New York investment firm said.

Just because he’s built like a Mack truck and likes to steamroll his way over people, said the CEO with the bluish-white thicket of thinning hair, that’s no reason to not to shove his fat ass out of the way.

Bering responded to the Ambassador, There’ll never be enough money to go around, Ambassador; you know that.

Where’s Landau? Has he met you yet? the Ambassador said to Bering, a worried grimace settling on his face. He was supposed to be here hours ago.

That hack reporter? Bering said.

He’s my wife’s nephew and she expects me to look after him. Just as the Ambassador finished, he felt a sharp slap on the shoulder. He turned and saw the Ugandan Health Minister beaming at him.

Speaking in impeccable English—that he had honed for years at Cambridge University as both an undergraduate and graduate student—the Minister said, in his husky voice, You know, Castleton, if you took advantage of the diverse flora and fauna in Uganda, you could take control of the pharmaceutical market worldwide.

Whatever gave you that idea?

There’s so much diversity, the Minister said, and the smirk on his face might have implied he had already plumbed the depths of the forest to find all those powerful elixirs he promised, but anyone who knew him knew he was all talk, all glitz.

Sir, it’s one thing to spend fifteen billion dollars to develop a drug; it’s another to spend billions to find a plant or an insect or some soil sample. That’s a bit much, a VC said, as he offered the Minister a glass of champagne. If you changed your position, Minister, and were willing to purchase drugs from Bering and the other pharmas, even at discounted prices, maybe they’d feel differently about investing in your country…

Is that true, Castleton? the Minister asked.

"It’s always we need this and we want that, Bering said. The truth is, it’s expensive here. We’ve come away with very little return on our dollar."

But we need hard currency, the Minister said. U.S. dollars, to spend on medicines for our people. If you could convince the IMF to loan us—

Just then, the Ambassador pointed to the other side of the room.

Terrence Landau, barefoot and looking haggard, had just limped in.

Terry, he shouted as he rushed over. What the hell happened?

CHAPTER FOUR

Budd Schuller, CEO of Aurora Scientific, sat at his desk, focused on a stack of papers, when a man in his mid-thirties, dressed in a crisp dark blue military dress uniform, entered the spacious corner office. The man was sturdy, handsome, and almost statuesque as his hands fell to his sides, standing at fixed attention in front of Schuller, who paused, stared, and couldn’t help but notice that the officer’s chest was thrust out to highlight the rows of colors and designations aligned over his left breast, as if those commendations and awards were proof of his ability.

You’re the computer scientist?

The six-foot-four man adjusted his stance and clasped his hands behind his back, standing at ease, before he answered in staccato words, Yes, sir. I’m Isidore Ehrlich.

He glanced at his wristwatch before smoothing the sleeves of his suit and running a hand through his dirty-blond hair, his hat tucked under his left arm.

"So, you’re at you-sam-rid?"

Yes, sir. The United States Army Medical Research Institute of Infectious Diseases (USAMRIID) at Fort Detrick, Maryland.

"I know about your Ph.D. in Mathematics and Computer Science and your Master’s in Biochemistry. Impressive. What do you do at you-sam-rid?"

Well, sir—

"Stop calling me sir. You make me feel like I’m your father."

Yes, sir, I mean, yes, Dr. Schuller. I’m responsible for everything computer science-related at the Institute. Networking. Security. Code development. Systems architecture. And I have a background in biochemical systems. So I understand the biological basis of our business.

You know why you’re here? Schuller said, leaning back in his chair and throwing his arms behind his head, as a feeling of despair soured his expression.

Cyber-distress. Your systems have been breached and compromised.

I requested help from the White House, and Trevor sent you.

I hope they chose well, sir.

You’re confident, aren’t you? Schuller said. I only hope you’re as good at what you do.

Ehrlich hesitated a few seconds as he stared at a picture of spaghetti-like confetti that was undoubtedly some bacterial organism hanging on the wood-paneled wall over Schuller’s left shoulder.

Where’s the FBI agent? Schuller asked.

She’s supposed to be here tomorrow.

I thought she’d be here tonight.

Dr. Schuller, I’d like an hour with some of your R&D people.

You mean my networking specialists?

No. Your product people. The ones who use computers to design drugs and manage development. Then I’ll need a computer with access to your system.

Shouldn’t we wait for—

She’ll be here when she’s here. I’m not waiting.

Just then, a harried, overweight man burst into Schuller’s office and interrupted. It’s happening again.

I thought you told me you fixed it.

That’s what I thought, Sergei Zubovski said, scratching his head.

Ehrlich listened as the man rattled off words at Schuller. Ehrlich had no doubt that this was why he had been summoned. What, exactly, was happening was unclear. Except it was not the first time.

What’ve you done? Schuller said.

Shut everything down, Zubovski said, sweating more profusely the more he had to explain.

Our entire installation’s off-line?

For the time being.

The balding man studied Ehrlich. Zubovski appeared small beside Ehrlich, who towered over him by half a foot.

Give us a minute, Schuller said. I’ll be right in.

Zubovski disappeared as abruptly as he had entered.

That’s my Network Director, Sergei Zubovski. I make him nervous.

Seems as though he has reason to be nervous now, wouldn’t you agree?

Schuller laughed. Sergei doesn’t have a clue. That’s why we’re in this mess to begin with.

So you want us to save the day? Is that it?

Trevor assured me you’re tops in your field, Colonel.

That’s good to know. Have you told the cyber-criminals?

Schuller laughed. Hey, if you can tell jokes, that’s even better.

Than what?

Than if you couldn’t tell jokes.

Ehrlich snickered as Schuller said, Shall we go into the lab and see what’s happening, or what’s happened?

Not yet. I want to meet the R&D people who manage your drug development process.

What do you mean; you don’t want to see the networking—

I have an idea what’s happening in there.

But my networking guys don’t—

You’ve called me in. Let me do my job, please.

What can my product people tell you that could possibly make a difference?

I need to understand your business, Dr. Schuller. How you’re using computers and information.

What does that have to do with this? Schuller said, staring at Ehrlich’ s granite stature.

You know, every time you log on to your computer, at least three other people, or should I say governments, are inside the guts of your system, watching everything you do.

What’re you saying?

Aurora could be the latest pawn in a cyber-war. And I don’t know why. That’s why I want to meet your people. Ehrlich glared. Enough already; can we go? Or do you want to wait for Fitzgerald?

Paula Fitzgerald? She’s the FBI agent?